Return to the Skies
by L J Groundwater
Summary: A German propaganda stunt leads to Hogan doing something he thought he'd given up for the rest of the war. Please read and review. Thanks.
1. The Journey

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L. J. Groundwater.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Robert Hogan looked down at his wrists as the handcuffs were snapped roughly, and tightly, in place. "General, I protest!" he complained loudly. "I said I'd come with you; you don't have to chain me up like an animal!"

General Albert Burkhalter raised his eyebrows at the Prisoner of War. "Ah, but I _do_, Colonel Hogan!" he answered. "You see, I cannot help but think that once you believe we have relaxed that you will do something rather… unfortunate… for the Third Reich." The large Luftwaffe officer stood a little straighter before Hogan, as the US Army Air Corps officer rattled his cuffs angrily.

"Oh, really?" Hogan retorted. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

"You aren't," Burkhalter said firmly. "And you won't. You are going to have a nice sleep now, Hogan. Enjoy the rest while you can."

With a nod of his head, Burkhalter set the guard next to Hogan in motion, and suddenly a cloth was being drawn down to press against the Colonel's face. Hogan struggled against the hand gripping his arm tightly and doubled over to avoid whatever it was the guard was trying to do to him. But he was suddenly and violently jerked upright, and a strong blow to the side of his head left him reeling and disoriented. Then the cloth was placed over his nose and mouth, and a few seconds later, all was black.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The men of Barracks Two watched with despair as their commanding officer was dragged into the waiting staff car and blindfolded before being driven out of camp with the Germans. Then they turned, despondent, away from the guards who had stopped them from going to Hogan's aid, and headed back into their hut to gather around the common room table.

"I don't like it, mates," RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk said, breaking the silence that had descended upon them. "Handcuffed. Knocked around. Blindfolded. What have they got planned for him?"

Louis Le Beau came to the table with the pot of coffee he had made earlier and poured some into the cup in front of Newkirk. "Burkhalter could have at least held his discussion in Klink's office," the French Corporal said, thinking how the listening device the POWs had planted in the office of Stalag 13's Kommandant might have given them some guidance. "The way it is now, we know nothing."

"Maybe we can get word to the Underground," suggested Sergeant Andrew Carter. The young American was always looking for a positive outcome. Seeing Colonel Hogan treated so shamefully in front of the rest of the prisoners was more than disturbing to him, but he wasn't going to give up if he could help Hogan. No way! "What about that, Kinch?"

Sergeant James Kinchloe pursed his lips as he leaned against his bunk. "We can get word, Carter," he answered. "But all they'll be able to do is keep a lookout for the Colonel. We don't have any real idea where they've taken him." Kinch sighed. "And we have to consider one other possibility, too: that we've been found out, and they've dragged Colonel Hogan away for interrogation before descending on all of us."

"_Le_ _Colonel_ will not say anything," Le Beau declared vehemently. Then he let himself consider the implications of what Kinch had said, and sank onto a bench. "Poor _Colonel_. He will not say anything. They will torture him."

Newkirk thought about the secret organization that he'd been part of for the past two years, run from this POW camp deep within Nazi Germany. All the tunnels, the radio, the maps and plans and ammunition sitting beneath their feet. The Allied flyers and German defectors whom they had helped get back to London. The bridges, tunnels, factories, ammo dumps that they had destroyed while traipsing in and out of Stalag 13 like it was a hotel. And then he considered the man in charge of the operation—Hogan, an American flying ace who had arrived one cold day looking lost and beaten, who had been abused in the worst ways by his captors, and whose story even now the prisoners did not know for certain. And he thought of that man today, struggling before being struck and dragged unconscious into a car, and driven out of camp before their eyes, perhaps forever. Newkirk slammed his first on the table. "We've gotta get 'im back!" he exclaimed desperately.

The others looked at him, their own thoughts one with his, and they nodded agreement, though they were unsure there was anything they could do.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan awoke with a dull headache and a feeling of nausea deep in the pit of his stomach. Not yet daring to open his eyes, he tried to take stock of his situation. The low hum of a motor met his ears, telling him that he was still in a car, going God Knew Where. The slight jostling as the vehicle moved over uneven roads was helping contribute to his queasiness, and he felt a throbbing on the side of his face where he had been struck into obedience. He wanted to let the sensations lull him back into unconsciousness, but he could sense the warmth of someone sitting close by and knew that he had to force himself to be aware of what was happening around him.

Hogan decided to open his eyes, but when he did he was met with darkness. He let out an involuntarily cry of alarm before he realized that part of the pressure he felt against his sore head was a blindfold. But the noise was enough to draw the attention of someone around him. Hogan felt the person next to him shift position.

"Ah, _finally_, Hogan!" Burkhalter. "This trip was becoming rather _dull_ without your usual sarcasm to liven things up!"

Hogan didn't feel up to the banter. "What did you do to me?" he asked wearily, letting his head fall back against the seat.

"Just a bit of chloroform to ensure your cooperation and our secrecy."

Hogan hated how chirpy and self-assured the General was sounding. "'Pretty please' would have sufficed." Hogan groaned as the car hit a pothole and sent his stomach rolling. Burkhalter laughed. "Look, if you didn't want me to see anything, why did you bring me along?"

"Just a bit of propaganda, Hogan," Burkhalter answered. "Surely you know how it works. We show you, an esteemed enemy flyer, something that you cannot possibly do anything about. Your morale takes a nosedive, and you carry that depression back to your men. This then spreads to the rest of the prisoners in the camp… and suddenly, we have obedient men who stop resisting the illustrious Third Reich. You will also record a broadcast for the Allies, telling them how useless fighting such power would be; after today, the conviction in your voice should be most convincing. "

Hogan waited before speaking, trying to will away the pounding in his head. "You really expect that to happen?" he said finally. "You're more delusional than I thought."

"Not really, Hogan," Burkhalter answered. "If nothing else, it will serve, perhaps, to put you in your place. And I must admit, I am looking forward to seeing that side of you, even for a little while. I have not seen you in a submissive state for two years. You are long overdue for a dose of humility. Put him back to sleep."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Repoooooort!" The Kommandant of Prisoner of War camp Stalag 13 bellowed as he approached his Sergeant of the Guard and the men assembled outside the barracks.

"_Herr _Kommandant! All present… well… all accounted for." Hans Schultz wiggled his small moustache as he faced his commanding officer. The rotund guard found it difficult to take a tough stance with the prisoners in this camp; indeed, he found it difficult to do most stern things in this terrible world war. But this afternoon, with the senior prisoner of war officer—one of his own main protectors from places further east and quite chilly—missing, Schultz was finding it almost impossible to be strict. The men of Barracks Two were surly and unruly, and he was in no physical shape to bark them back into line. And, truth be told, he was in no mood to do so, either.

Wilhelm Klink nodded and gripped his riding crop rhythmically. "Very good, Schultz. Now men," he announced, facing the lineup, "I want you to know that even though your spokesman, Colonel Hogan, is not here at the moment, I will continue to run this camp with my usual efficiency. I will expect you conduct yourselves as gentlemen until he returns."

Le Beau immediately ignored Klink's request. "Where have _les Boches_ taken him?" he shouted crossly from his place in line.

"Yeah, what's going on? How come nobody told us where he was going?" Carter piped up from behind him.

"No one ever tells us anything," Kinch complained.

"Silence!" Klink shouted. The prisoners slowly settled down. "Colonel Hogan left with General Burkhalter. You are prisoners; it is not necessary to give you any details. That is all," he said abruptly, hoping to quell any further discussion.

Newkirk couldn't resist getting a dig in—and trying to get Klink to say more than he intended. "So when will the big fat tub o' lard bring him back?"

"Whenever the big fat tub of lar—I mean whenever General Burkhalter is done with him!" Klink raised a balled fist in frustration. "Don't put words in my mouth, Newkirk!"

"Wouldn't _dream_ of it, sir!" Newkirk replied cheerfully. Then, "I don't know where it's been!"

The prisoners laughed heartily. Klink was upset. "_Silence!_" The titters slowly came under control. "You will see Colonel Hogan again when and if the General sees fit to bring him here." The Kommandant's wording disturbed Hogan's men, who suddenly became quite somber. "In the meantime, I suggest you conduct yourselves in a manner very unlike what you are doing now. Otherwise it's the cooler for you." He nodded curtly at Schultz, then turned back when his remark was met with snorts of derision. "_For all of you_," he said through his teeth. "_Diiiiiiis-miiiiiiiiiiiiissed_." And he turned on his heel and strode back to his office.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Hogan, wake up. We are here. Are you planning to sleep through the war?"

Hogan heard the voice from somewhere around him and tried to rouse himself. This time he realized immediately that he was still blindfolded and in the car. He pulled himself away from the back of the seat and found that a sickening dizziness had taken up residence with his throbbing head, and he lurched forward as the darkness spun around him. Hands on his shoulders kept him from landing on his face. "_Ohh_," he moaned softly.

Someone pushed him back in the seat, and Hogan let his head rest on the cool leather. "Feeling a bit woozy from the chloroform still, are we, Hogan?"

_Oh, God. Burkhalter again._

"I don't know about _us_," Hogan replied between shallow breaths, hating the General's saccharine, condescending tone, "but _I'm_ not feeling so hot at the moment."

"The fresh air will help," Burkhalter said, not sounding remotely like he cared if it would or not. "And this."

Suddenly Hogan found his blindfold gone. He blinked in the brightness and gasped as the light lanced his skull, sharpening his headache. He brought his hands up to his face, softly cursing the handcuffs that were making his wrists ache. "Why don't you warn a guy?" he grumbled.

Burkhalter laughed. "Come, Hogan. We have much to see before you are returned to your safe little prison camp."

The driver of the car opened the door for Burkhalter, and the General got out and straightened his coat. Then the guard that had accompanied them pushed Hogan from behind, forcing the Colonel to use his shackled hands to brace himself on the seat or fall out of the vehicle. "I'm coming, I'm coming," Hogan mumbled, annoyed. He slid over so he could get out on his own and stood up. He was suddenly quite dizzy and swayed backwards toward the car. The guard merely put a hand on Hogan's back to stop from being trod on, but offered no support. Hogan felt himself break out in a cold sweat, and he pulled away from the touch of the guard and braced his hands on his knees with his eyes closed, panting.

"Bring him."

Burkhalter's sharp voice cut through the fog still enveloping Hogan's brain, and the Colonel found himself being yanked up by the arm and practically dragged toward a large building. Hogan's other senses quickly kicked in and he decided he needed to find out exactly what was going on. He tried to take in the environment around him but his head was still spinning and he was finding it hard to focus. As he was shoved past another guard through a doorway, he staggered unsteadily and slammed his left wrist hard against the doorframe. Hogan groaned in pain. But no one found it necessary to stop and help him regain his equilibrium, and he was pulled down a hallway, still handcuffed, and still completely ignorant of his location.

Eventually, they were met by a middle-aged man in a white lab coat, wearing spectacles and carrying a clipboard. Hogan's mind rushed back to another time he had been confronted with what appeared to be a German scientist… and though the images weren't clear, they were enough to send him into a blind panic. Hogan involuntarily took a step back from the man who was looking at him curiously, coming in contact with the guard, who pushed him away.

The man greeted Burkhalter cordially. _"Herr General, wir haben Sie erwartet. Ich bin Otto Rupp_._"_ He stared coldly at Hogan. _"Was ist los? Warum ist dieser Mann hier?"_

Struggling to stay calm, Hogan listened to the man's welcome, and his annoyed question about Hogan's presence. Then came Burkhalter's explanation. _"Oberst Hogan ist ein Kriegsgefangener in einem Stalag Luft nahe Hammelburg._ _Wir zeigen ihm die Helligkeit des Dritten Reichs, da er nicht versteht, wie hoffnungslos seine Situation ist, und er Schwierigkeiten an seinem Lager verursacht."_

Hogan tried not to snort as he translated: _Colonel Hogan is a prisoner of war in a Stalag Luft near Hammelburg. We are showing him the brilliance of the Third Reich, since he does not understand how hopeless his situation is, and he causes trouble in his camp._

The tiniest of smiles curled the edges of Hogan's lips as his humility at being treated like a piece of property grew. _Trouble?_ _You ain't seen nothin' yet._

The unknown man shook his head and frowned. _"Ich mag das amerikanische Innere unser Laboratorium nicht."_

Burkhalter turned to Hogan, who at these last words had started to relax just slightly; clearly, the American was not welcome. "He does not like having you here, Hogan."

"The feeling's mutual," Hogan said sullenly.

Burkhalter laughed again. "Good! Then perhaps you will learn something today." He turned back to the man in white. _"Der Minister der Propaganda mag die Idee. Nehmen Sie uns zu Ihren Laboratorien bitte."_

"_Jawohl, Herr General."_

Hogan tried to study the doors he passed and read the plates on them, but he was still feeling very unwell after the chloroform, and he found he had to concentrate simply on remaining vertical. Eventually, they stopped at a large door on which a plate read: _AUTORISIERTER ZUGANG NUR_. Burkhalter nodded approvingly, and Rupp opened the locked door and ushered his visitors inside.

"_Das ist, wo der grösste Teil der Forschung getan wird,"_ Rupp began.

Burkhalter held up a hand. "Please, Professor, speak in English so our guest will feel at home," he said, nodding with a genteel smile in Hogan's direction.

Hogan suddenly felt sick again, but it had nothing to do with the chloroform. He said nothing and tried to garner his strength.

"Very well, General. This is where most of our research is conducted," Rupp amended, his accent heavy but his English impeccable. "Our scientists and researchers live and work in this building to make their devotion to their work complete. They are treated very well."

Burkhalter nodded, pleased. "And why don't you tell Colonel Hogan what type of work you are currently doing?"

Rupp smiled, obviously pleased enough with his project to overcome his dismay at Hogan being present. "Atomic research, of course, General. We are quite close to the completion of phase one of our studies. We have made some marvelous strides and are quite close, we believe, to constructing at least a preliminary weapon that can be used against the Allies. Further testing is required, but we have managed to create a nuclear chain reaction—and are more than likely only a few months away from having something that will be acceptable for use."

Hogan's head shot up. "An atomic bomb?" he practically yelped.

Burkhalter laughed. "Ah, so you _do_ listen, Hogan!" he observed, satisfied.

"_Herr_ Heisenberg came through here, General. He said the Fatherland is years away from producing an atom bomb… but we are going to prove differently."

Burkhalter turned to Hogan. "Werner Heisenberg is among our most influential and brilliant physicists, Hogan. But even geniuses can be out of step. As you can see, _Herr_ Rupp is quite certain of our nuclear capabilities. Tell me, _Herr_ Rupp, what plans are being made for use of this capability once we have perfected it?"

Rupp smiled, pleased at the General's interest. "Well, it is not for me to say, General Burkhalter. However I am told that the Fuhrer would like to see it directed at both England and…" Rupp turned with a slight nod toward Hogan, "at the United States."

Hogan turned cold inside. A physicist who was certain that nuclear capability was still in its infancy. A scientist who was saying that it was not. A belief that Hitler was hoping to unleash this power on the Allies. It was too much for a man to bear without feeling some kind of dread, and Hogan was no exception. He inhaled deeply to combat his light-headedness. "That would be devastating," he breathed.

"Indeed, I think that would be the idea," Burkhalter replied, seemingly oblivious to Hogan's reaction. "Very good, _Herr_ Rupp. What else can you show us today? I would love for Hogan to have a very deep understanding of the German superiority."

Hogan lowered his eyes. "You've done enough. I don't want to see any more," he mumbled. "Take me back to camp."

Burkhalter laughed again and slapped Hogan jovially on the back. The American barely reacted. "Nonsense, Hogan! I can see this visit is having its desired effect on you. Come. There is much to see before I even _think _about taking you back to Stalag 13."

Hogan nodded dejectedly, and when the guard's rifle prodded him, he followed in silence.


	2. Mysteries

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan's head remained on his chest for most of the remainder of the tour. He heard about the care that the Nazi regime gave to the scientists, the living arrangements at the laboratory, and, more importantly, the strides that the Germans had made up to now in the area of nuclear fission. To Hogan, it sounded like there was a bit of dissension in the ranks over whether nuclear capability was the way to go. But whenever he raised his head, giving away his real interest, Burkhalter would gloss over the apparent hostilities, and so Hogan stayed with his head bowed as long as possible.

Eventually, when the General was sure that Hogan had had more than his fill of humiliation, he turned to the American. "So now, Hogan, do you think you understand enough about what we are doing to make it clear to the Allies that they have no way of winning this war?"

Hogan nodded humbly. "Please take me back to camp," he said in a whisper.

"I think that is a fine idea, Colonel," Burkhalter said. He turned to Rupp. "Thank you, _Herr_ Rupp, for your excellent guided tour. You have made a very important contribution to the war effort."

_You can say __**that**__ again_, Hogan thought determinedly.

The group was led outside and again Hogan blinked in the light. This time, though, he raised his head and for once looked around him, studying everything, looking intently at the building, listening to the sounds of the environment that surrounded him, scanning trees, landscapes, the skyline, the horizon.

Suddenly the guard grabbed Hogan's handcuffs roughly. Hogan grunted uncomfortably, and though he knew it was futile, he couldn't help resisting as a cloth soaked in chloroform was again pushed into his face, and dizziness and darkness dropped him into someone's waiting arms.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"He's back!"

Carter burst into Barracks Two well after evening mess and blurted out his announcement to its occupants. Kinch, Le Beau and Newkirk jumped up at his words and followed him back outside to look across the compound.

The staff car had come to a halt near Klink's office, and Burkhalter stepped out and was now speaking to the Kommandant. The men saw a guard hauling Hogan out of the back seat and were immediately both worried and irate. Even in the dim light, their commanding officer was clearly not well; as the blindfold and handcuffs were removed, Hogan swayed, not able to stand on his own, and he appeared disheveled and disoriented. Klink called for Schultz, who then relieved the General's guard of the American, and supported a tottering Colonel Hogan back toward the barracks.

Hogan's men took over as the Sergeant reached the door. "We've got him now, Schultz," Kinch said, slinging one of Hogan's arms over his shoulders and watching as Carter took the other. Schultz released his burden and followed as the men brought Hogan into his room and helped him lie on the lower bunk.

Hogan was struggling to sit up, almost drunken in his movements, but he was uncoordinated and almost incoherent, and his men had no trouble keeping him down as they removed his cap and jacket. "Louis, go get Sergeant Wilson," Kinch said, and without worrying about whether it would be allowed or not, the Frenchman pushed past Schultz and obeyed. "What'd they do to him, Schultz?"

"I do not know, Kinchloe. Honest!"

Kinch grabbed a blanket from the upper bunk and tried to spread it over the Colonel, but Hogan was still trying to get up and resisted it. "'m all right," he mumbled softly. "Just need a few minutes of… fresh air." A small groan as he glanced up toward the guard and then away. "And no Krauts."

Newkirk immediately confronted Schultz. "You heard 'im, Schultz. No Germans allowed. I'm afraid you're going to have to go."

"B-B-But the Kommandant, he wants me to find out—"

"You can find out later, Schultz. Now _scram_," Newkirk said almost harshly, and with Carter's help he finally shoved the large Sergeant out of the room and shut the door. "What happened, gov'nor? What did they do to you?" the Englishman asked gently now. Hogan had managed to sit up and swing his feet onto the floor and was now holding his head in his hand, his elbow braced on his knee for strength he did not feel. Newkirk knelt beside the Colonel as Carter wrapped the blanket around Hogan's shoulders. "Did they torture you?"

"They took me to a laboratory," Hogan answered, rubbing his temple soothingly but not opening his eyes. Another moan. "They wanted to—" He cut off as he felt his stomach flip, and he folded in half and put his hand over his mouth to stop anything unfortunate from happening. Hogan groaned as he felt himself break out in a cold sweat, and he stayed bent double for a minute, then resumed massaging his temples.

Hogan's men could only look at each other, concerned, as they registered the Colonel's words and his condition. Soon Le Beau returned with Joe Wilson, and Newkirk and Carter moved out of the way so the camp medic could examine the officer. "Colonel? It's Joe," he said softly. Hogan nodded very slightly but did not open his eyes. "What's happening?"

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Hogan gasped. He covered his eyes and breathed shallowly through his mouth.

"Did they inject you with anything, Colonel?" Wilson asked. "Make you swallow anything?"

Hogan couldn't shake his head. "I don't think so," he managed. "Just shoved… chloroform in my face half the day. Be all right… in a minute."

Wilson nodded. "Chloroform. That explains the nausea. Are you dizzy? Have a headache?" Hogan groaned. "I take it that's a yes." He glanced at Hogan's men, who were huddled by his desk, watching intently. "He's right, fellas. He'll be fine. His confusion and other symptoms can be attributed to the chloroform. If he was only under for a little while, the immediate symptoms should go away soon. Still," he said, turning back to the Colonel, "I'll get you some aspirin for the headache, and you need to get some rest. Now, Le Beau says you were handcuffed; how are your wrists?"

"Sore," Hogan whispered, not daring to tempt his stomach or his head right now.

Wilson drew down Hogan's arms as the Colonel slowly brought himself back to life. "They're red raw, Colonel," the Sergeant said. "Let me wrap them, eh?" Wilson moved to his bag and took out a bottle of aspirin, tipping out two pills and accepting the glass of water that Carter had grabbed from the other room. He held out the drink and the pills to Hogan. "Come on," he urged gently; "take these."

Hogan looked up and took the offering, swallowing painfully as his head throbbed at the movement. "Thanks," he said weakly.

Wilson started on Hogan's right wrist, unused to having an audience for his work. But Hogan had started talking again; it was clear he wasn't planning to rest yet, and Wilson had a hard time kicking the Colonel's men out at the best of times. "We've got trouble. Big trouble," Hogan said softly. "Burkhalter brought me to a laboratory where the Krauts are developing the atomic bomb."

"Holy cow!" Carter exclaimed as the others reacted. Hogan winced at the sound. "Sorry," Carter added more softly. "What'd he do that for, Colonel?"

"To ruin my day," Hogan replied. "He wants me to record a broadcast for the Allies, to tell them how useless resistance is in the face of such awesome power." Hogan flinched as Wilson worked. "Part of his plan worked: he spoiled my day. But he sure won't get me to broadcast anything." Hogan suddenly blinked himself into alertness. "What time is it?" he asked.

Newkirk frowned. "Just after half-seven. Why?"

"What time did I leave here with Burkhalter?"

Kinch shrugged. "Eight-thirty this morning."

"Do you know for sure? Exactly?"

Kinch considered, frowning as he recalled the events of the morning. "Yes, sir, I'm sure," he said finally.

Hogan looked at the watch on his left wrist, ignoring the swelling and violent red marks left from being handcuffed too tightly all day. "Hmm," he mused. "Two hours and thirty-nine minutes."

Le Beau furrowed his brow. "What is that, Colonel?"

"Burkhalter drugged me with chloroform to make sure I was unconscious for the trip so I didn't know where I was going or how I got there. But when we got to the building I purposely smashed my wrist against the doorframe—I was hoping it would be hard enough to break my watch, since I couldn't see it. And it was. So if I left at exactly eight-thirty, we traveled for just under two hours and thirty-nine minutes—_if_ we didn't make any stops along the way."

Wilson finished dressing Hogan's right wrist and took hold of his left arm. "Well that explains the terrible bruising on this arm," he said, shaking his head. "Don't you ever think about me when you're out?" he chastised.

"Wish I could, Joe," Hogan replied, wincing again as the medic removed the watch and started handling his sore forearm. "But I had to think of some way to figure out what was going on. I wasn't thinking too clearly when I got yanked out of Burkhalter's staff car, and I thought at least a sense of time…" His voice trailed off.

Wilson had also seen Hogan taken out of camp that morning and understood his feelings of helplessness. "Yeah," the medic said softly now. "At least you might have some idea of where that lab is. The problem is, what can you do about it?"

"Nothing," Hogan sighed. His nausea was starting to disappear now, and the dizziness was subsiding. All that was left was the headache and a profound tiredness. But there was still work to do. "Kinch, can you get on the horn to London? I'm going to have to report all this and see if there isn't anything we can do to—"

"Now hold it right there, Colonel," Wilson interrupted. Kinch, who had come forward at Hogan's statement, stopped. "You can report everything in the morning. You're still groggy and a bit disoriented, and I don't want you climbing up and down ladders until you've had a long rest. The war won't go away overnight."

Hogan sighed and gave in easily, lying down and closing his eyes. "If only it would, Joe," he whispered. "If… only it would."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"I let Burkhalter think he'd totally broken my spirit while they paraded me around the lab," Hogan was saying the next morning after roll call. "I found that they talked a lot more when they thought they were torturing me with the information than they did when I was showing them I was interested."

"Friendly chaps, those Krauts," Newkirk observed. "Always willing to tell you exactly what you don't want to know."

"Precisely," Hogan said, nodding. He paused for a moment before continuing. The dizziness and nausea from inhaling the chloroform had disappeared, but his headache remained and his wrists still throbbed. Still, he was grateful that he'd had the presence of mind to try and make some sense of what was happening yesterday, and now, he had to try to find a way to use the information he had gathered to the Allies' advantage. "Kinch, what have we got for maps of the area?"

The Sergeant reached in behind a bulletin board in the common room that also served as a front for a small compartment. He fished through two or three folded maps before bringing one out and handing it to the Colonel. Hogan nodded and spread the map on the table, then accepted an offeredcompass from Carter and started calculating. "If Burkhalter didn't make any stops on our little joy ride, _and_ he stuck to the speed limits allowed by military vehicles, then in two hours and thirty-nine minutes, we could have gone a maximum of about sixty-seven miles."

Hogan's men watched as their commanding officer measured the possible distance on the map's scale with the compass, then put the pointed end of the instrument on top of Stalag 13, and slowly drew a circle with the pencil end. Then he put down the compass with a heavy sigh, and pored over the map. "Now let's see," he said, studying the drawing before him, "if Burkhalter did all the right things—and we know in our hearts, of course, that all good little Krauts obey the speed limits—then we couldn't have been outside this circle."

Hogan closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember the sounds and sights of the day before. "Water," he said finally, opening his eyes again. "There was water nearby." He looked at the map and ran his finger inside the circle. "Buschdorf… Bonn… Wachtberg… Arzdorf…" Hogan sighed and straightened. "Too many possibilities. Look at all the towns along the Rhine…." He shook his head. "It could be any one of them. Looks like Burkhalter succeeded in one thing—he couldn't have made me feel more useless if he'd tried."

Hogan's men looked at each other, dismayed. In their own way they knew exactly how their commanding officer felt. Knowing of a danger to the Allies was nothing new—the tightening in their guts as they tried to turn a strong disadvantage to their favor was now almost a welcome thing—but knowing, and being powerless to do anything about it, was a different feeling altogether… and one that none of them appreciated. And Hogan, having seen it all first-hand, would be feeling the distress most of all.

The door to the barracks swung open and Schultz barreled in uninvited, leaving the men to protest the blast of cold air and the intrusion. Carter quickly shoved the map inside his jacket. "Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant wants to see you in his office."

"Now?" Hogan asked, glancing out of habit to where his watch should be, then pursing his lips. He'd have to make sure that got fixed, and quick. _At the very least before the next meeting outside the wire._

"Actually, the Kommandant wants to know when you would have an appointment available in your diary. He knows how busy you are at this time of the war," Schultz replied with a touch of smugness.

"Great, a Kraut comedian," Hogan said, shaking his head. "All right, Schultz. Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes."

Schultz gave a slight shake of his head and a smile that indicated a temporary feeling of superiority. "_Not_ in a few minutes, Colonel Hogan. He wants to see you _now_. General Burkhalter is here, and the Kommandant does not want him kept waiting."

Hogan shivered involuntarily. The movement wasn't lost on his men. "Okay, Schultz. Just let me finish my coffee and I'll be right there."

Schultz frowned. "But you aren't drinking coffee."

Hogan's foot slipped off the bench and he straightened, irritable. "Then I'll _get_ some. Look, I'm talking to my men; just gimme a minute, okay?"

"Fine." Hogan stared hard at the Sergeant when he didn't move. The guard looked at Hogan, then at each of the others, who were staring just as intently at him. "I will wait for you… outside." And he was gone.

"Kinch, get in touch with the Underground. See if they can tell you anything about any research labs within a sixty-seven mile radius of the camp. See if there's been anything more unusual than normal going on, see if there's anything the Krauts have been guarding extra heavily that they can't seem to figure out."

"Right, Colonel."

"Do you think they'll find anything, Colonel?" asked Carter.

Hogan shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. If the laboratory is as much of a secret as Burkhalter was boasting yesterday, the Underground probably hasn't spotted it as anything special. But it's worth a shot, especially since whatever we find—or _don't_—I have to report to London."

"Do you want me to get London on the line, too, Colonel?" Kinch asked quietly.

Hogan sighed. Reluctantly accepting the almost complete lack of practical information he'd gathered yesterday, he was suddenly grateful that Wilson had stopped him from contacting Allied Headquarters last night. He zipped up his jacket and started pulling up the collar. "Let's hear from the Underground first," he answered. "Maybe they'll have something to report." _Though I doubt it,_ he didn't add aloud. "After that we'll talk to Headquarters. Just be ready to catch my eagles when they get pushed off their perch; London's not likely to be very happy with what I have to say."


	3. An Unexpected Trip

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan waited impatiently in the antechamber while _Fraulein_ Hilda announced his presence to the German officers on the other side of the door. "You can go in now, Colonel Hogan," she said, turning a small but warm smile toward the American.

Hogan nodded and smiled softly back at her, then braced himself and strode confidently into Klink's office. "Colonel Hogan reporting as ordered, sir," he said, aiming a salute at Klink, who was sitting behind his desk, and trying hard to ignore Burkhalter, who was seated in front of the desk.

"Ah, Colonel Hogan," Burkhalter said before Klink could get a word out. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Hogan did his best to hide the murderous glare he wanted to aim at the General and instead raised an eyebrow. "Could you lower your voice, General? Some noises still echo through my head a bit too loudly this morning."

Hogan wished Burkhalter hadn't thought he was kidding, as the German's laugh rang through his still-pounding head. He winced and turned away. "A bit weak today, are we?" the General observed.

"It only hurts when I breathe or talk to Krauts," Hogan replied sarcastically. As Klink's face started to turn red, Hogan amended, "I mean Germans. Sorry; habit."

Burkhalter chose to ignore the jab. "Colonel Hogan, I wanted to bring you a draft of the speech you are to record for the Allies to hear." He picked a folder up off Klink's desk and held it out to Hogan. The American didn't take it. "You can read this and see if there is anything you want to add. When do you think you will be ready to broadcast?"

"I _won't_," Hogan answered firmly.

Klink blustered up out of his seat. "Now, Hogan, this is no time for insolence!"

"It's not a matter of _insolence_, Kommandant—thanks to the chloroform bouquet I inhaled, I was so dopey I don't remember a blessed thing! All I got out of it was a blinding headache and a stomach that did more flips than a roller coaster." Hogan paused. "Now if you'd like to remind me, General, I might be able to help out—like, where _was_ this candy factory you took me to?"

Burkhalter laughed heartily, still patiently holding out the folder. "Hogan, you never give up, do you?" Hogan frowned. "We did not _tell_ you where you were taken yesterday!"

Hogan snapped his fingers and pursed his lips. "Well, that explains that memory gap," he said. "How about how far we traveled in the car?"

Another chortle from the German General. "Or that either, Hogan. Of course, that is why you were dosed with chloroform in the first place!"

Hogan let out a disgusted breath. "_That_ I remember," he said, putting a hand to his temple and closing his eyes for a bit of relief from the brightness of Klink's office.

"Why don't you let this _speech_ remind you of a few things you saw yesterday, Colonel Hogan?" Burkhalter said, prodding the American in the chest with the file. This time Hogan took it. "I will be back in touch to have you brought to our broadcasting studios. Feel free to add in anything else that worries you about what you saw—if you can remember it, of course!"

"Hogan, I will talk with you later today. You are dismissed," Klink said, looking from Burkhalter to Hogan, and not liking the look in the eyes of either man.

Hogan finally let the glare he had been restraining loose on the General. He held up the file like it was contaminated. "Don't hold your breath waiting for me to start talking," he said through gritted teeth. Then he shot off a sloppy and disrespectful salute and stormed out of the office.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan came back up into the barracks shortly after the day's final roll call and closed the tunnel entrance with a sigh before heading toward his office. The Underground had turned up nothing of value today, and after a day full of his own fruitless investigation, Hogan had contacted Allied Headquarters to report what he had seen yesterday, shamefully admitting in the end that he was clueless as to the laboratory's location. His men looked at each other and at Hogan, trying to gauge whether to ask what they wanted to know or not.

Finally, Le Beau spoke up for them all. "What did London say, _Colonel_?"

Hogan stopped mid-step and turned thoughtfully to the Frenchman. "I was right: they're not happy. They're itching to do something about what I _do_ know… but of course they _can't_ because of what I _don't_ know." He paused, considering again before speaking. "Listen, I have to go out tonight; have we heard anything about surprise bed checks?"

The men exchanged glances and shuffled uncomfortably. "No, Colonel. Schultz hasn't said anything, and we didn't hear anything in Klink's office. But then, we weren't expecting anything," Kinch replied.

"Hm," Hogan said. "I'd better make sure he doesn't expect to see me if he comes by, then," he said. "Or at roll call tomorrow morning, for that matter, in case I'm not back in time."

Newkirk frowned. "Not back in time, gov'nor? What's the mission, then?"

Hogan looked from one man to the other. "I have to go back to London right away." He paused as the not-unexpected outbursts from his men flew at him. "Just hold it a minute, fellas," Hogan said calmly. "They want me to look at some aerial shots of this part of Germany to see if I can recognize where I was taken yesterday. They're pretty keyed up about the idea of an atomic research laboratory operating full steam ahead, as you can imagine, and they want to do something about it, _soon_. Not knowing where it is, is driving them nuts." He paused. "And it's not doing much for me, either."

Le Beau nodded. "We understand, _Colonel_. So how will you get there?"

"They're sending a plane for me at twenty-two hundred hours, so we'll have to make sure the Krauts are all snuggled up in their beds by then. If all goes to plan, I'll be back in time for roll call in the morning."

"Are you sure you should be going, Colonel?" Carter asked quietly now. Hogan looked at him questioningly. "I-I mean, with the way Burkhalter drugged you—well, you still don't look really well. Maybe it's a better idea to wait until you've had a chance to recover, you know?"

Hogan smiled gently, touched by the Sergeant's worry. "Thanks for the concern, Carter, but I'm fine." Hogan's mind visibly concocted a scheme, and he pointed absentmindedly at the young man as he was still envisaging the scene. "But I think I'm about to get sick, real fast." Hogan's men reacted with confusion as the Colonel snapped into action. "Carter, go get Wilson and tell him we're going to need some of his fancy medical talk. Le Beau, put a bug in Schultz's ear that I've been complaining about feeling sick all day. Newkirk, I need you to make sure my dress browns are ready for travel."

"Right, gov'nor."

"Kinch—go get Klink. Tell him I collapsed after roll call." Hogan got a small gleam in his eye. "Burkhalter's little trick is about to be my ticket out of camp."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Klink looked around Hogan's darkened office and at the senior POW officer lying groaning on the bunk. "But he was perfectly all right this morning!" Klink exclaimed.

"_Ohhhhhhh_," Hogan moaned loudly, clutching his head with both hands and turning away from the voices.

The prisoners shushed Klink harshly. "I mean—_he was perfectly all right this morning!_" the Kommandant whispered urgently.

"Oh, really?" Wilson replied, sounding doubtful. He turned to Hogan's men. "He didn't have a headache?"

Klink recanted when Wilson expressed his suspicions. "Oh—well—I mean, _yes_, he complained that he had a headache, but it was nothing like this!"

"Um, yes, well…" faltered Wilson.

"Delayed Relapse Syndrome," Kinch piped up quickly.

"What?" Klink asked, turning to the Sergeant.

"Delayed Relapse Syndrome, of course," Kinch repeated firmly, shooting a look at the medic. "The Colonel was so traumatized after he saw General Burkhalter this morning that it brought on another reaction to the chloroform!"

"B-But that can't be _possible_, can it?"

"_Ohhhhhh!_" from Hogan's bed. The Colonel's dark hair disappeared under the blankets.

"Does that look impossible to you?" Le Beau put in, pointing to the lump of covers, then crossing his arms expectantly.

"Oh!" Klink whispered, dismayed. "Oh, so what do we do?"

"Well, we have to leave him alone for at least twenty-four hours, Kommandant," Wilson said authoritatively. "No light, no sounds. Any little noise or disturbance can be absolutely devastating to him. He's in a great deal of pain, and the simplest little sound—even a door opening—can be excruciating. He's not to leave this room."

"But what about roll call—?"

"_Owwwwww!_ Have a heart, will ya?" came the muffled voice of Hogan.

Newkirk shook his head. "I don't think he'll be able to handle it, Kommandant," he said. He leaned over the blankets. "Will you, Colonel?" he asked in a loud voice.

"_Ooooh_… please… have mercy!" And the blankets edged closer to the wall.

Wilson nodded knowingly. "There you have it, Kommandant. A classic case. Colonel Hogan's going to need complete peace for at least twenty-four hours. If you want him to survive this intact, you're going to have to give him some leeway. Don't talk to him, don't come near him, don't even try to come _in_ here, or you could deliver a crushing blow and he'll need to be hospitalized. I'm considering that already."

"_Hospitalized?_" Klink looked closely at the bundle on the bunk, debating to himself whether he should go along with this dubious situation. But Hogan sounded so unwell and his men were staring and the medic was shaking his head grimly, so… "All right," he agreed finally. "All right. Twenty-four hours. And then I expect to see Colonel Hogan standing at roll call with the rest of the prisoners!"

"Thank you, Kommandant," Wilson said gratefully, as Klink turned on his heel and left Hogan's room. He threw a look back at Hogan's men, who were trying not to grin from ear to ear. "I'm sure he'll be feeling better soon."

"Well, you see that he is!" Klink called over his shoulder. Hogan let out a huge groan. "Sorry, Hogan!" he whispered loudly, as Carter practically pushed him out of the barracks and closed the door behind him.

When he heard the door shut, Hogan pushed the blankets off of his head and sat up in bed. "Well, we're training him well; that only took half the time I thought it would." He looked at his watch, which one of his men had skillfully repaired earlier in the day. "Okay, I've got two hours to get out of here."

"Your uniform will be ready in half an hour, sir," Newkirk announced, still grinning at the performance he'd just witnessed.

"Good." Hogan stood up and stretched. "We'll need to dress this bunk up so it looks like I'm still here if Klink _does_ come blundering in at some stage. Wish I'd known about this before—I would have gotten some actual _sleep_ today. It's gonna be a _long _night."


	4. A Surprise Assignment

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"I'm sure you can appreciate the urgency of this situation, Hogan."

"Yes, sir." Hogan stood in the office of General Alfred Butler in the wee hours of the morning, taking in the warmth of the room and starting to feel fatigue seeping into his bones. It had been a long, uncomfortable flight to London in the middle of the night, and at the moment there was no rest on the horizon. "The Germans were quite clear about what they're intending to do."

The General turned away from Hogan and toward his well-stocked bar. "So you said when you reported," Butler said. He picked up a glass and a carafe of a golden brown liquid. "Drink?"

"No, thank you, sir."

"Well, _I_ could use one," Butler said. He poured himself a large brandy, then took only a small sip and put the glass down. He turned to face the young officer whose career he had followed with great interest and even a bit of personal pride. Butler had been one of the first to recognize Hogan's potential when the Colonel—then a Major—had reached England before the United States had become officially involved in the war in Europe. Now, so much later, Hogan had turned into a fine leader of men, head of one of the most successful intelligence and espionage units deep within Nazi Germany, operating, of all places, out of a Prisoner of War camp. Butler himself had suggested the command position to Hogan after the Colonel was shot down two years ago, and despite it being the General's idea, Hogan's acceptance of the proposition had still come as a surprise. But it had increased his already-strong faith in the younger man, and so far, Butler realized now, Hogan had never disappointed him.

"Your message came as quite a shock, Colonel Hogan," Butler said now, as Hogan watched him intently. "We've known, of course, that the Germans have been working on atomic weaponry for some time. But we didn't know how far they had gotten, or where that work was being done. Now, we are better informed."

The gravity of the situation made Hogan's voice low and restrained. And an internal sense of shame helped keep it that way. "I'm afraid I didn't get as much useful information as High Command would have liked, sir."

Butler shook his head dismissively. "The Germans made sure that you couldn't," the General declared. "That you found out as much as you did was a minor miracle of its own." His eyes fixed on Hogan's still-bandaged wrists. "I trust you've recovered from whatever they did to you," he said, for just a moment seeing a real tiredness etched in the younger man's face. The four rows of ribbon bars Hogan wore on his dress jacket had been hard-earned, Butler realized for not the first time. _Every one of them. And there'll likely be at least another row of them when you come home for good._

"Yes, sir," Hogan replied, shrugging in his jacket to make his sleeves hide the gauze. "But unfortunately, all I could find out was a possible range of locations for the laboratory. And even that isn't set in stone, since I wasn't able to see our route to the facility. I've only got my knowledge of the building itself, and impressions of the surrounding area."

"Tell me again about the Germans' current capability."

"It's uncertain, sir. They seem to be at odds about just how far they can go in a relatively short period of time."

"But they're making plans."

"Yes, sir. They want to aim atomic bombs at both England and at the United States."

"And we can't let that happen." Butler turned and walked behind his desk, motioning for Hogan to sit in the chair in front of it. "It's _Götterdämmerung_, Hogan. Twilight of the gods. They've been on about it for years. But until now, no confirmation of any real progress. You've seen the laboratories yourself?"

"Yes, sir. I saw several research labs, and the living quarters for the scientists. I've given all the information to the debriefing team."

"And you haven't seen the exact location, but you _have_ seen the area," Butler confirmed.

Hogan rubbed his eyes slowly, trying to pull all the images into his mind. "Yes, sir. Hills. Water. A wide path through the trees nearby, like they were cleared. But I'm making presumptions, sir; I was unconscious for the whole journey. I don't know if they made any stops, or obeyed the speed limits. If they deviated from standard procedure, my guess will be wrong."

"But at the moment, your guess is all we have to go on." Butler nodded. "I'm afraid there's no rest for you tonight, Colonel. We have several aerial photographs of the area of Germany that we believe you might have been taken to. We need you to study them and see if you can recognize where you were. After that, we'll be going in."

Hogan nodded. "I understand, sir."

"Good man." Butler allowed a small smile to cross his lips. "I'll make sure someone brings you a decent meal while you're looking them over. You… seem to have lost a bit of weight since you've been at Stalag 13."

"My uniforms were getting a little snug anyway, sir," Hogan said.

"Nevertheless, you need to stay strong and alert now, and we'll see that you do. When do you have to be back at camp?"

"The Kommandant expects to see me some time after morning roll call, sir."

Butler shook his head. "_After_ roll call." He smiled. "Hogan, you could sell sand to the Arabs. I'm glad you're on our side."

"Me, too, sir."

"Now, come on—there's a lot of work to do, and not a lot of time to do it. We don't want your Kommandant to think you're an ungrateful guest."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan straightened up from his hunched position over the table and stretched stiffly. "We don't have anything more close up, right?" he asked, rubbing his eyes to relieve the stinging in them for the third time in the last twenty minutes. He glanced at the clock on the wall: one forty-seven. He'd been at it for more than an hour now and all the images were starting to run together.

"No, sir, I'm afraid we don't," Captain Birks replied. The man who had been assigned as Hogan's aide while he was in London smiled at him apologetically. "There's only so close those planes can get, you know, sir."

"I know, I know," Hogan admitted with a weary smile.

"Any luck, Colonel?" the Captain asked.

"Possibly," Hogan said, rubbing his neck and moving his head to ease muscles sore from extended, unmoving concentration poring over photographs. "I just wish I had more time… or psychic powers." He sighed and picked up a picture he had studied and discarded several times. "Where's this?"

Birks looked closely at the photo in Hogan's hand. "I believe that's just outside Bonn, sir."

"Bonn." Hogan took another look at the photo and turned to the Captain. "I need to talk to General Butler," he said. "And then I need to get moving. It's almost three o'clock in Germany, and they'll be holding up breakfast till I get there." He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand.

"Another cup of tea, sir?" Birks offered.

Hogan shook his head. "No, thanks. Didn't finish the first one. Hot water with a bit of sugar—I'm afraid that's not for me. I'd never make it as an Englishman."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"So this is it, Hogan." Butler held the photograph up again.

Hogan let his eyes flick back up to the image. "I think so, sir."

"But you have your doubts."

"Like I said, sir, I was unconscious, and when I was first taken out of the car, I was too groggy to really take it all in. I'd feel better about it if I could see it for myself, sir."

"Can you identify the building in this photo?"

Hogan shook his head. "Not for certain, sir." He came forward as Butler moved the picture under a lamp. "But this seems like the general area." He pointed to the photo. "Fenced in—no other buildings in the immediate area. A lot of trees, a clearing—we were surrounded, but I could hear something else. We were near something, a large body of water, not just a trickle." He shook his head again, then ran his finger along the picture. "Water—in this direction, if the entrance to the lab was on this side. And hills…" Hogan looked closely again, then tapped a section of the image. "…here. I can see a horizon in my head, sir, and I think I'm right, but I'm afraid from these pictures I just can't guarantee it."

Butler seemed to pick up on Hogan's hesitancy. "And you're reluctant to hit the wrong target." Hogan remained silent but lowered his eyes. "But you'd be confident if you saw the area yourself?"

Hogan shrugged. "If I had a feel for the place, sir. I'm sure I would know when I saw it." _When I finally figured out what they were up to, it was burned in my memory forever._

Butler stood up straight and snapped off the desk lamp. "I'd like to give you a chance to do that, Hogan. You may not feel totally certain, but this is the closest we're going to get. And we can't take a chance that we're leaving this laboratory operating for even one day longer than necessary." Butler looked the young man square in the eye. "We want you to lead the bombing mission, Colonel."

Hogan furrowed his brow questioningly. "General?"

"We could go in, Hogan, and simply bomb all Hell out of this target. But without you there to confirm it, we may never know if we succeeded at stopping the Germans' advances in nuclear warfare. If you go, at least we'll have a better chance of knowing whether we did that or not." He paused. "And if we didn't, you'll have more work to do back at Stalag 13."

Hogan nodded but said nothing.

"There _will_ be a secondary target, of course—if you feel we have picked the wrong location for the laboratory, then we won't waste the trip. But Hogan, I won't kid you: putting you back in the sky was not a decision that was made lightly. The work you do at Stalag 13 is vital, and you are a valued and highly respected man here in London—and in Washington."

"Thank you, sir."

"But this project is too big to let Jerry get away with. And you are our best chance of success."

"I understand, sir."

"We'll work out the details and get you back here as quickly as possible." Butler paused as he again searched the young officer's face. "Are you up to it, Hogan?"

"You can count on me, sir." Hogan thought for a second, then asked quietly, "What about my men, sir?"

"Your men?"

"At Stalag 13. If I'm shot down, they're going to need someone to look after them and keep the operation going."

Butler smiled almost regretfully. "Try not to think like that, Hogan. The mission will go as planned. But rest assured: if they suddenly find themselves without a Papa Bear, we'll get them a stepfather."

Hogan nodded. "Thank you, sir."

Butler smiled more broadly, proud of the younger man and glad that this crucial meeting had been at least moderately successful. "And now, we'd better get you back to your cottage in Germany," he said. "We're sending you back with a bundle of good food, warm clothes… and a pillow. You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet. Rest on the way back, son, if you can. And be ready for action when you return."


	5. Breaking the News

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan emerged quickly and quietly from the tunnel into Barracks Two, immediately taking note of the emptiness of the hut and knowing that morning roll call was underway. He slipped into his office, took off his shoes, tie, and dress coat, and put them in his closet. Then he headed for his bunk. "Move over, Hogan," he said to the pile of blankets that had pretended to be him for the night. "Colonel Hogan needs a rest." He pulled out the material and blankets and spread them on both bunks, then lay down on the lower mattress, making sure his face was clearly visible in case Klink or Schultz came barreling in when the men were dismissed.

He closed his eyes to think, but it wasn't long before thinking turned to dreaming, and Hogan didn't notice when his men, followed by Klink, came into his office shortly after and found him sleeping soundly.

"What, he's still asleep?" Klink asked with some amazement.

"_Ssshh_," Newkirk admonished, coming up to Hogan's bedside. Yep, that was the gov'nor, and sure enough, he wasn't putting it on—he was sleeping, and deeply. It would have been a long night, the Englishman thought with a twinge of sympathy "This'd be the first sleep he's gotten all night. How much rest do you think he's been getting with a headache like his?"

Hogan frowned slightly and sighed. Kinch wheeled Klink away from the American officer. "Look, Kommandant, why don't you leave him to us for awhile? I'm sure he'll be feeling better soon, and we'll bring him right to you, okay?"

"Well, if you're sure," Klink said reluctantly. "Do you think Hogan needs a doctor?"

"No, no, Kommandant," Kinch said, as he watched Hogan waking up and blinking to bring himself into the present. "You just leave him to Wilson. I'm sure everything will be okay."

And again, the Kommandant was shoved out before he could notice Hogan's movements. Hogan sat up and rubbed his face, then took in the staring eyes of the four men around him. "What's going on?" he asked sleepily.

"Nothing, Colonel—just getting rid of Klink. He was trying to see how you were," Le Beau explained.

"We couldn't keep him out—it's a good thing you were here," Carter put in. "How long _have_ you been here, sir?"

Hogan rubbed his face hard. "I got here when you were at roll call. How long ago was that?"

"Not long," Kinch replied. "Look, we'll just tell Klink you're still sick; you look like you could use the sleep."

Hogan nodded. "I could, but I won't have time for it. I need to go back to London tonight."

"Go back to London? What for?" Le Beau asked.

"Didn't the photos show anything useful, Colonel?" guessed Kinch.

Hogan nodded and stood up, discarding the blanket reluctantly and heading into the common room to grab some coffee. "They sure did," he answered, pouring a fresh cup and taking a long drink.

"So what do they want you to go back for? If you found the lab, then all they have to do is go in and get it!" Newkirk declared. "Or maybe they'd like you to bomb it yourself!" he said jokingly.

Hogan turned to his men and looked at them intently. "That's _exactly_ what they want."

The gasps of astonishment were matched only by the gaping looks of disbelief. "What?" Newkirk exclaimed.

"Are they crazy?" Kinch burst.

Hogan shrugged. "High Command wants me to lead the bombing raid on the atomic plant. I'm the only one who saw it, and they want me to eyeball the target in person, since the Krauts aren't likely to confirm the location for us and we've had absolutely zero luck doing that from here. If I've guessed wrong, then we've got our next mission. Otherwise the Nazis will continue making progress towards the biggest disaster the Allies could ever see." He took another drink and stared into the cup.

"Now that there's a possible location, can't we just send in the Underground to check it out?" Carter asked.

But Hogan shook his head. "We don't have anyone out that far that can help us. Not even our contacts have contacts there."

"They're daft, that's what they are, thinking you can just waltz in and out of here and not be missed." Newkirk gave Hogan a long look, and frowned. "You're daft, too, mate, if you're giving it serious consideration."

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "It's not a matter of _consideration_, Newkirk. It's an order." He shrugged and turned back to his quarters. "I've already asked them to make sure you fellas are looked after if I don't come back." Speaking through the stunned silence, Hogan started musing aloud. "Now, all I need is an excuse to be out of camp, or at least out of Klink's sight, for another forty-eight hours…."

"You could always try to escape," Carter piped up. "We'd tell the Kommandant that you got a Dear John letter."

"Klink might not understand that," Kinch said, chuckling softly.

Hogan let out a light laugh through his nose. "Just tell him it was a _Dear Johannes_ letter—I'm sure he's seen plenty of _them_." He put his cup down on his desk, then looked back at his men. "I'll figure it out. Meantime I want you fellas to carry on as usual, right?"

"I'll come with you, sir," Newkirk said suddenly.

The room fell quiet. Hogan furrowed his brow as he regarded the Englishman. "Newkirk?" he questioned quietly.

"I—I was an Air Gunner, Colonel. I could be useful up there on a B-17, might even get a chance to try out those .50 caliber guns you've got in 'em." Newkirk was all at once shy, even hesitant, to offer up his idea. Hogan waited. "That way if something happened to you up there, you'd have someone to look after you—you know, someone you're familiar with."

Hogan smiled gently. "Thanks, Newkirk," he said. "But now isn't the time to learn our new guns… and if something happens to me, it might just happen to you, too. Besides, High Command seems to have its own ideas about who will fly with me." Hogan looked around and saw the fallen faces of his men, and was touched. "Look, I was always a pilot first, right?" he said softly. A few small nods. "It'll be all right," he said. "The Krauts won't be expecting this by a long shot… and I _did_ manage just a _few_ missions before I was shot down, so the odds are in my favor, right?" More reluctant agreement. "Hey, have some confidence in me, will ya?" Hogan said brightly. "I'll be back before Schultz can finish off one of Le Beau's strudels." He paused. "And I have a good reason to get back in one piece—no one else will keep you in line the way I will, and I can't let you fellas go to pieces, can I?"

Hogan tried to smile again, but found the men only slightly willing to play along. "Anyway, I have work to do before I go, and I think I already have a plan in line for Klink," Hogan said, breaking the tension. "Tell Olsen I need to see him when he comes back off spud duty. I'll be in my office."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan was deeply engrossed in something at his desk when Le Beau came in carrying a steaming cup. "Here is your coffee, _Colonel_."

"Thanks, Le Beau," Hogan said. He pulled himself up straighter and took a long drink, then put the cup down and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"You should be getting some rest, _Colonel_. If you are going out tonight again you will need sleep."

Hogan smiled softly. Le Beau was always the mother hen, and Hogan the wayward chick. "I'll catch some shut-eye later."

Le Beau didn't move. Hogan turned back to his desk, raising the cup to his lips but not taking a drink. "There's something else?" Hogan asked.

"_Oui_, _Colonel_." Le Beau hesitated. "Going out on this bombing mission—it is dangerous."

Hogan nodded. "Raids never _were_ considered the safest activities," he agreed.

More hesitation. "We are worried about you, _Colonel_. About what happens if you get hurt—or," he paused and finished quietly, "or if you get shot down again."

This time it was Hogan's turn to hesitate. "I know," he said. "I've been thinking about that, too. If I get killed but the plane makes it home, that's easy. If I get shot down and recaptured, _that's_ the big problem."

Le Beau looked perplexed. "_Colonel_?"

Hogan turned to the Frenchman. "Look, if I get killed onboard the plane, you guys tell Klink I've escaped. Then if London can't send someone who can do the job, you close up shop and get out. But if I'm shot down over Germany and recaptured by the Krauts…" Hogan shook his head. That had been a living Hell the _first _time—this time, with so many more secrets to keep, with so many more lives at stake, it would be even worse. _If that's possible_, he thought. "Think about it. They'll look me up, realize I'm already a prisoner, and then wonder how I was shot down out of a plane during a bombing raid. They'll call Klink, who'll say I've been here all along, and suddenly the whole operation is exposed, and you guys are dead ducks before you even know I've been caught."

Le Beau nodded, numb. "And then they will torture you, _Colonel_… and shoot you as a spy."

"And every one of you will go down with me, without me ever saying a word." Hogan took in and let out a deep breath. "Look, orders are orders and I have to do it. I'm sure Allied High Command has considered all of this already, and it's up to us to go along with it. We can't let the Krauts get ahead in atomic research. If they're anywhere close to what they tried to show me, then even losing the operation is worth it." He gestured vaguely at his desk. Several papers and the folder Burkhalter had given to him—useless as it had been for any kind of new information—were spread out across it. "But I've been trying to work it out so that won't happen. I've got a plan for Klink to cover my absence… and escape plans for _you_ fellas if I don't come back at all."

Le Beau's face dropped, and Hogan felt his own heart plunge into his gut as he realized that both of them were considering an end to everything they had been doing for the past two years. "It'll be all right," he said, his voice lacking the reassurance that he wanted to offer. "I just won't get shot down, okay?"

Le Beau tried to smile back. "_Oui, Colonel_. _D'accord_. I will make your favorite dessert for you for when you come back. You will get very hungry during your flight."

"You can say _that_ again."

A light knock on the door was followed by a dark head popping into the room. "You sent for me, Colonel?"

"Olsen—just the man I wanted to see. Come on in; there's something I need you to do."


	6. Two Hogans for the Price of One

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"I'll be back in two days; you know where I'll be. If things get too hot here with Klink, I know I can count on you to cover for me."

The faces of Hogan's men were tight as he stood before them in the tunnel that evening. All of them had something to say to him; none of them could find the voice to say it. They just shifted from foot to foot and avoided his gaze as he tried to look each of them in the eye, as he always did when they were embarking on a particularly dangerous assignment. Only this time, the danger was for the most part confined to Hogan; if they kept their cool, and stuck to his instructions, they would more than likely come out okay—whether Hogan was alive and well, or not.

"You know the drop zone; I'll be there at oh-two-hundred Friday. If I'm not, you make tracks back for camp and contact London. If no one can give you any answers, you get out—no questions asked. Burn everything and go—no waiting around. Understood?"

Mumbled acknowledgement from the men. Hogan continued regarding them carefully, both grateful for and disappointed by their quietness. Finally, Newkirk spoke up. "The place won't be the same without you, sir."

"Thanks, Newkirk. I'll do my best not to miss my flight."

Hogan's men smiled weakly at the small joke, then settled into another awkward silence. Finally, Hogan said, "Well, I've gotta get moving. There's a lot of retraining waiting for me in London. You fellas stick to the script and everything'll be fine. Okay?" He moved to walk past them to the tunnel exit and out into the night.

But Le Beau suddenly blocked his way. _"Bonne chance, mon Colonel_,_"_ the Frenchman said in a soft voice. "We will be listening for word of your success."

"Yeah," Carter suddenly forced himself to say. "Everything will work out great."

"Sure it will," Kinch said.

"Never any doubt, sir," Newkirk chimed in.

Hogan's eyes smiled in gratitude. "Thanks, fellas. I'll be back soon."

"Be safe, _Colonel_," Le Beau told Hogan.

Hogan's heart went into his throat. He could only nod and pass quickly up the ladder.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"_Zwölf... dreizehn..._" Schultz paused thoughtfully as he counted the men of Barracks Two the next morning, looking closely at the short, dark-haired man who stood hunched in the back row with his hands stuffed into his pockets. He looked around at the other prisoners waiting patiently at roll call, then back at the man before him. "Didn't I just count you at Barracks Three?" he asked suspiciously.

"Couldn't have, Schultz," Kinch put in. "He wouldn't be standing here waiting to be counted again, would he?"

The guard thought for a moment, then shook his head and kept walking until he got to the end of the line and came around the men to face Colonel Hogan.

Or not.

Schultz pointed to the man standing in the senior POW's usual position. "_What_… is going on?" he asked, starting to feel a sense of urgency in the pit of his stomach that only came from the shenanigans of Hogan and his crew.

"You're doing roll call, Schultzie," Newkirk reminded him lightly. "You know—counting us to make sure you haven't lost anyone."

"But I _have_!" the Sergeant said through his teeth. "_This_ is not Colonel Hogan!"

"It's not?" Newkirk said, astonished.

"He is _wearing_ Colonel Hogan's jacket. He is _wearing_ Colonel Hogan's hat. He is _standing_ in Colonel Hogan's spot. But he is _not _Colonel Hogan!"

Newkirk leaned in closely and looked into the face of the man beside him. "Well, what do you know?" he declared, amazed. "Olsen, when did you get the Colonel's jacket?"

"Yesterday," the Sergeant replied simply, still looking straight ahead innocently.

"_Yesterday_?" Schultz moaned.

"Sure, Schultz; he'll give it back when the Colonel comes back to camp," Carter chimed in.

"_Comes back?_"

"He'll be back on Friday, Schultz. It won't be long," Le Beau reassured him.

"Where has he _gone_?" worried the guard.

"London," Kinch said. "But don't worry, Schultz. As long as Klink stays away, you won't have anything to worry about."

"_Won't have anything to_—? Oh, this I must report. This is too much. I cannot have prisoners disappearing and reappearing, men coming in from other barracks to be counted twice… no, no, _this_ I must tell the Kommandant!" Schultz fretted.

"Gee, I _admire_ ya, Schultz," Carter said.

"Me, too," Newkirk said. "Takes a brave man, doesn't it, mates?" he said, turning to the others in the line.

"Brave?" Schultz asked, puzzled.

"Sure, Schultz," Kinch explained. "When you tell the Kommandant that Colonel Hogan's disappeared, he's going to wonder how that happened… and since you're the one counting us this morning—"

"B-But you said he went away yesterday!"

"Did we?" Le Beau asked. "I can't remember that. Can you, Olsen?"

Olsen shook his head. "No—no, I can't remember that."

"Nice jacket, that, Olsen," Newkirk observed genially. "Is it warm?"

"No, not really," Olsen replied. "I wonder how the Colonel puts up with it in the middle of winter. I'll have to ask him when he gets back."

"Maybe my mom will knit him a nice warm sweater to wear under it. I never thought those jackets were as warm as mine is," Carter said. "I mean I've got the fleece, especially around the collar, and all those have is—"

"_Enough!_" Schultz burst pleadingly. The prisoners stopped their conversation and looked at the guard innocently. "When did you say he will be back?"

"He should be at roll call on Friday morning, Schultz," Kinch said.

The portly Sergeant sighed and squared his shoulders. "All right. I will tell the Kommandant that I have my prisoners. But Colonel Hogan _must _be back on Friday!" he demanded, pleaded, shaking his finger at the men.

"He will, Schultz," Carter said.

"Have we ever let you down before?" Le Beau added.

Klink came barreling down the steps in the early morning light. "_Repooooort_!" he said, with a slight cough.

"_Herr_ Kommandant! I have counted fifteen men this morning," Schultz said, with only a small glance in the prisoners' direction.

"Very good, Schultz. Dismiss the men," Klink said, coughing again. "I'll be in my quarters today—I feel a cold coming on and I don't want to be disturbed! Understood?"

"_Jawohl_, _Herr _Kommandant!" The guard tried his best to hide a broad smile.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Sergeant? Do you think it's amusing that I am sick?"

"Oh, _no_, _Herr_ Kommandant! I just—uh, I just—"

"He just thinks it would be a great excuse to pamper you, Kommandant," piped up Newkirk.

"Pamper me?" Klink said.

"Certainly, sir," the Englishman continued. "Bring you nice, hot drinks, get you a warm, cozy blanket. Keep _all_ the prisoners away from you—you know, make sure you get complete rest. _At least for a couple of days_."

Schultz took the cue gratefully. "Oh, _yes_, _Herr _Kommandant. At _least_ until… _Friday_."

"Let's just get through today," Klink said with a sneeze. Then he turned and headed away from the prisoners. As they were starting to relax, Klink turned back. "Hogan!"

Olsen froze mid-step, the others surrounding him protectively. The young man turned just slightly and said in a voice not intended to be his own, "Sir?"

Klink moved in only a few feet, but closer than the prisoners liked. Olsen dipped his head down into Hogan's jacket. "I want to see _you_ least of all. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Olsen replied with a nod, and he turned back to Barracks Two as Klink retreated.

"See, Schultz?" Newkirk said as the guard watched the men disperse. "Nothing to it."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan stood in Butler's office at the airbase, waiting for the General to arrive. He had been summoned here shortly after he woke up—a long, late sleep he realized, when he for the first time in two years rose _after_ six o'clock in the morning. Having turned into a light sleeper and unhappily used to an uncomfortable bunk without a pillow, Hogan had willingly succumbed to the luxury of a real mattress, a feather pillow and several blankets in private quarters, and slept long and deeply despite the noises of the base around him. And apparently, Butler had indulged him.

After a couple of minutes, the door opened and Butler walked in. "Hogan," he greeted. Hogan came to attention and then relaxed when allowed. "Sorry to keep you, my boy. There's a lot happening here today, as you know. Did you sleep well?"

"_Very_ well, sir."

Butler smiled knowingly. "Good. You'll need the energy. There's a lot of work to do to prepare for tomorrow's raid. As you are well aware, this isn't any ordinary mission."

"No, sir," Hogan agreed.

"No one but a few top brass are aware that you're even here, Hogan," Butler said, rounding his desk. "And we're going to keep it that way."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Your plane will lead the Group, of course. It will be manned with very special personnel—specifically, all of them former escapees who have come through your camp and who are therefore already aware of your secret operation. We have also rounded up enough men for at least three of them to be in each of the other planes in the lead squadron—the pilot, co-pilot, and radio operator. In that way, your secrecy is maintained. For security purposes, Hogan, we want as few people outside of Germany to know about your trip here as possible."

"I understand, sir."

"You will meet these men this afternoon and brief them on the mission at hand."

Hogan paused. "Have these men volunteered, sir?"

Butler pursed his lips but said nothing.

"With all due respect, sir, this mission is like none I've ever been involved in before. I'd like them to feel confident about what we're doing."

Finally, Butler said, "The Army Air Corps doesn't look favorably on having men go on forays solely on a volunteer basis." Hogan nodded silent acceptance. "However, I thought you might feel that way, and so we've summoned enough men that if you—or they—have any doubts about their suitability for this run, we can weed them out and still have enough to keep your presence a secret. And that, my boy, is extremely important if you're to go back to doing what you do at Stalag 13. And we certainly want you to do that."

"So do I, sir."

"You don't think you'll want to get back in the air once you've done this mission?"

"The operation is very important to me, sir. I have an outstanding group of men."

Butler nodded. _You were always good at avoiding a question, Hogan._ "And they have a fine leader. And we'll do everything we can to make sure you're reunited tomorrow night." Butler smiled. "Now, pull up a chair, son. You have a lot to learn."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Butler sat back in his chair and looked at his pupil. "So, Hogan, how do you feel now?"

Hogan let out a breath and nodded. "I think it'll be okay, sir. I _would_ like some time in the air to get used to the new formations, though. Changing from an eighteen-plane box to a twelve-plane formation is a big difference. And it's been a long time since I've been in the pilot's seat of a Flying Fortress."

"I'm afraid there won't be time to test-fly. But you'll spend some time with another pilot this afternoon. You'll be fine, son; it's like riding a bicycle. And as lead, you follow the same pattern as you always have; it's the boys behind you who needed to adapt."

Butler stood up. "You'll have fighter escort when you hit the coast of France." Hogan watched as the General paced the small room. "I know that was only a dream when you last flew out of West Raynham," Butler said, "but now it's common practice. The P-47s will meet you and escort you to the site, and help with any resistance from the Jerries."

Hogan's mind spun. He remembered all too well how he had argued against daylight bombings by the US Army Air Corps back in July of 1942—not only because the British had tried and considered it disastrous, but also because there was no fighter cover to protect the bombers from the inevitably heavy resistance from the Luftwaffe and the anti-aircraft guns. But his arguments had been dismissed, and Hogan had been chosen to lead experimental raids in anticipation of the Air Corps launching full scale attacks against the Germans in Europe in broad daylight. It was during one of these sorties that Hogan's plane, Goldilocks, had been specifically targeted by enemy fighters and brought down, thrusting him into a long and torturous encounter with Nazi interrogators and scientists, until he was finally assigned to Stalag Luft 13 nearly four months later. He had been devastated to learn that those tentative daylight raids that had claimed so many lives, that had led to his capture, had been considered successful, and that thousands of other men would be heading into terrible danger by flying during the day without escort. Now, Butler was reminding him that it was different. Now, there were fighters to help repel the Luftwaffe. Now, he would see what should have been in place so long ago. It was a sore point with Hogan that up until now he thought he'd risen above. He nodded but said nothing.

The irony wasn't lost on Butler. "Bittersweet, I would think," the General said gently. "You didn't have fighter escort two years ago; now you have it so you can get safely back to a POW camp." He shook his head. "It hardly seems fair. And yet I can't help but think it was fated to happen sometimes, Hogan. If you hadn't been shot down, we might never have gotten the operation you run now. And that's been a vital part of our progress toward ending the war that much faster."

Hogan dropped his eyes, understanding the General's point but still feeling the sting of his humiliating treatment at the hands of the Germans. "I'd rather have made it home, sir," he said very quietly.

Butler regarded the suddenly quiet young man, and deeply absorbed his resolve. Hogan wanted to run the operation; true, he was reluctant—downright resistant—at first, but he had grown into the role and excelled at it. But the acceptance had come at a steep price, robbing Hogan of his "right" as a prisoner to try and escape so he could fly again. And for a man who loved being a pilot, it was a harsh sentence for a crime he didn't commit. Butler felt compassion for the Colonel, and sat down in the chair directly across from him. "I'd rather it had been that way, too, son," he said. Hogan looked up, surprised by the General's gentle tone. "You've made a great sacrifice. And I want you to know that it's recognized."

"My men work very hard, sir."

"You all do. Look, Hogan, I realize this isn't the easiest assignment in the war—we want you here when it suits us, and we want you in Germany when it suits us. We're hard taskmasters and we demand a lot of you. And you've always come through for us no matter what the circumstances. I think sometimes—no, I _know_ sometimes—we take advantage of your willingness to do whatever it takes to get the job done. This time is no different, and we'll be asking you to go right back to Germany when Operation Wagner is completed." Hogan once again looked into his lap. "I can't stop that from happening.

"Nor would I want to," Butler admitted. "We couldn't afford to let you fly regularly again, and we don't want to leave what you have running at Stalag 13 to anyone else if we can help it. So you'll be going back. And you'll have the thanks of every flyer who ever goes through there."

Hogan nodded and looked Butler square in the eye. "That's good enough for me, sir."

Butler smiled, pleased, and with deep respect for the young officer. He stood up. "Let's have something to eat. Then you'll have an hour before you meet the men we've picked for this mission. The briefing room is ready."

"I'll be ready, too, sir."

Butler sighed, and Hogan followed him to the door. "I've gotten used to these English ways," he said with an indulgent smile. "Morning tea, high tea, finger sandwiches… it's enough to ruin a man, Hogan. Don't let yourself get dragged into it."

"I don't think I will, sir; I can't stand tea."


	7. Stating the Facts

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan stood in the doorway and remembered the feeling he used to get whenever he went into a briefing room as Commander of the 504th Bomb Group. The theatre-like setting of the room, with the curtained wall in the front and a small podium, always made him feel like he was about to go on stage. Only it wasn't as innocent as remembering lines and playing for an audience; whatever he said in front of the people assembled here was almost bound to be the death knell warning for at least one of the men. There was no script. Everything changed, every time he came here. And today was no different.

Except in one way: today, he knew he was going to be talking only to men who had already gone through the trauma of being shot down and either captured by the Germans or plucked out of the woods by Hogan's men, and the release of escaping back to the Allies. For just a second, Hogan wondered exactly what that freedom felt like. Then he put the thought aside and tried to tell himself that his freedom _did_ exist. But it was confined to his spirit, and only when his work was done would he be able to truly experience the release that came from walking out the front gates of Stalag 13, and into the welcoming arms of the Allies, with the knowledge that he would never again have to return to a prison camp to be watched by guards with rifles and short tempers.

Now, Hogan tugged slightly at the bottom of his dress jacket and shook his head. When he'd opened the door, over fifty men had turned toward him, every one of them clearly stunned at his presence, and all of them full of gratitude and admiration. He took in the atmosphere of the room, and tried to absorb it into his own mindset as he prepared to present the situation to these seasoned flyers.

Uncharacteristically nervous before the crew, Hogan swallowed hard and stepped to the front of the room. All the chattering had stopped when he had been seen, but now, the room was completely still. He could feel genuine warmth radiating from the group, but with it he felt an awesome responsibility. He was about to lead these men on a difficult and daring mission that might put them through Hell again—or lead to their death.

"Gentlemen, welcome," Hogan began. He cleared his throat. "I'm here today to talk with you about a crucial bombing mission for which you have been hand-picked. I know many of you had been promised that you wouldn't be flying over enemy territory again. But this mission's a bit unusual, and we need your help. But before we make our final plans, I want you to have a full view of the facts."

Hogan waited as he saw men exchanging glances, shifting in their seats, leaning forward, their faces expectant, and trusting. "You men all have something in common," Hogan cracked a smile: "my boys and I sent each of you out of the Stalag 13 Motel with reservations for a spot on a sub back to England." Light laughter penetrated the room as the men looked at each other and sparks of recognition lit in their eyes. "You didn't know exactly what was going on then, and some of you were pretty darned sure that it wasn't possible. But you went ahead anyway. This mission is a bit like that, and for reasons which I will explain, I must be the one to lead it.

"Colonel Robert Hogan was shot down after forty-seven bomb runs, his twentieth in Goldilocks, and he was taken prisoner by the Germans and put in a POW camp." Hogan paused. Explaining his defeat without emotion was an impossible task, no matter what the circumstances. When he felt more composed, he continued. "He was shot down and he stayed down. That's the end of the story as far as most men are concerned. But you know differently. You men have already seen the operation I run in Germany. That's classified information, and my life and the lives of my men depend on your continued silence."

Once again Hogan waited. Tension crackled like electricity through the small room. "The Nazis have installed a laboratory in a small town in Germany that they've tried very hard to keep secret. And up until the day they decided to show it off, they were doing a pretty good job of it. That laboratory is working very hard at developing an atom bomb." Hogan paused to let the information sink in. "We need to get rid of it. And we're planning to do that tomorrow.

"Normally, I'd put a map up here, and you'd see exactly where we're headed, what our obstacles might be, what our known weaknesses and strengths are. But that's not the case this time. We won't have any idea what we're up against until we get there." Hogan sighed inwardly. Children. He was sending children back into war. "The Krauts have, either by accident or design, tipped their hand. They took me to this plant. But they kept me blindfolded until we got there, so we're operating on my memory of the area and my eyesight. That's why I'm the one leading this foray, and that's why you were asked to be part of it. You've seen the operation at Stalag 13. You know what's at stake for both my men and any other flyers who get dropped into the area. No one outside this room and a couple of top brass can know I'm here. And time is short. I have to be back in time for roll call Friday morning in camp before the Krauts notice I'm gone. Otherwise they might give away my room."

Snickers from the group. "Well, that's it. We'll fly tomorrow in daylight, with fighter escort when we hit the coast. It's an unusual job, but it's deadly important that we get it right." Hogan paused, and then added in a more subdued voice, "Because of the unusual nature of this mission—the secrecy of my presence here and your role in keeping it to yourself if you're recaptured—I've been given authority to tell you that if any of you have strong reservations about being able to handle this, you can politely decline this invitation. No one will think less of you if you do."

Hogan stood silently before the men now, wanting to look them all in the eye but not daring to, as he didn't want them to feel pressured into agreeing to the mission. Now that the facts—scant as they were—were known, they might have different ideas about heading up into the skies.

One voice broke through his thoughts. "Colonel Hogan?"

Hogan looked up to see a young flyer standing in the middle of the crowded room. _This one's innocence itself_, he thought. His mind flew back to Stalag 13 and rested on Carter. Hogan nodded.

"Colonel Hogan, I'll be proud to fly with you. You just say where, and I'll be there."

Hogan smiled warmly at the young man, grateful for his support. He couldn't remember this man specifically, but just knowing that somehow he had made a difference to the life of every man in this room made Hogan feel thankful inside. And the buzz of agreement from the men around him made him feel proud—of them. These men were volunteering to fly with him on a hunch—and that meant their lives were once again in his hands. But they had trusted him before, to get them out of Germany, and they were trusting him again—to lead them safely home to England.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"I knew they wouldn't be able to keep you down for the duration."

Hogan's eyes widened and he felt his throat constrict when he heard the familiar voice. He turned around at once, only to see his old navigator, Lieutenant Mark Bailey, standing before him with a mischievous smile on his face. Hogan stared at him in disbelief, unable to move, or even to think.

The young man offered Hogan a clean salute. Still staring, Hogan returned the gesture, and then Bailey approached and took Hogan by the forearms. "Hey, Papa Bear," he said softly.

Hogan immediately relaxed, and then, almost unable to believe his own eyes, he gripped Bailey's arms as well and held fast. "Mark," he breathed, as though speaking too loudly would make the vision disappear.

"How are you, Papa?" asked Bailey, his voice still hushed.

Hogan took a minute to answer. To tell the truth, he was shocked. He was completely unprepared for the wave of emotion that swept through him when he saw one of the crew of his ill-fated B-17 Goldilocks standing before him. And that it was Bailey was even more overwhelming. Here was a man who was one of Hogan's closest companions before they were shot down over Hamburg. Here was a man whose faith in and loyalty to Hogan had exceeded almost all others'. Here was a man who could almost see inside Hogan's head. Here was Hogan's Baby Bear. It was a dizzying and almost haunting encounter.

Hogan shook himself out of his daze. "I'm fine," he said with difficulty. He cleared his throat and the two parted. "You're… the last person I expected to see here today."

Bailey grinned disarmingly. "Why's that? I'm one of the first ones you helped out of Germany, remember?"

Hogan nodded thoughtfully as he remembered the very beginnings of what had become a massive operation at Stalag 13. Out in the pouring rain with Newkirk, the pair had brought back three escaped prisoners for passage back to London, and Hogan's surprise then at seeing a member of his crew—one who had been reported Missing in Action, no less—was almost physical. The hope that seeing Bailey then had given him had been a key factor in his decision to accept London's offer to head the operation now in place under the camp. And the feelings brought on by seeing Bailey now were just as buoyant. "I remember."

"So now you're flying again, Papa. Sounds pretty serious."

"It is," Hogan said grimly. "If we don't get this laboratory—and the scientists in it—we could be in big trouble."

"So they had to bring you back to get it." Bailey smiled gently. "Nothing ever changes. When there's a big problem, call in Papa Bear."

Hogan nodded. "That's what I seem to exist for," he admitted, still feeing awkward.

"Hey, are you allowed to go for a cup of coffee somewhere?" Hogan cocked his head. "It'd be a chance to catch up. We can do it somewhere private so no one will find out you're here."

Hogan badly wanted to spend time with this link from his past. "There's an office down the hall I've been given access to while I'm here," he said.

"I'll get two cups, then, and come right down, okay?" Bailey's bright voice and equally bright eyes gave Hogan an unexplainable sense of peace, and he nodded. "White, one sugar?"

Hogan smiled. "Used to be. Sadly lacking in milk where I am now, though. Better make it black. I'm gonna be up for a long time and I need every ounce of energy I can get."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"So how are things out there, Papa? I mean really," Bailey asked a short time later.

Hogan shrugged and took his first drink of real coffee in a long time. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste, the smell, the texture, the warmth of it. "_Ohhh_, that's good," he moaned appreciatively, embracing just for a moment the normalcy that came with a simple sip out of something that wasn't chipped or made of tin. He opened his eyes. "We're doing well," he said in reply to Bailey's question. "Everyone's very committed. I have a good crew. I've had _two_ good crews," he added meaningfully.

Bailey smiled, taking a big swallow of his own drink. Hogan's mind flashed back to meals he used to share with Bailey when they were both stationed at West Raynham—the young man had always practically inhaled his food. "There are still a lot of good fellas out there, Papa," Bailey said. "And these fellas that have come back—they'll follow you into Hell."

Hogan sighed heavily. "I know that," he said.

Bailey studied Hogan's face for a moment. "That bothers you?"

"In a way, yeah," Hogan admitted. Bailey didn't say anything. "We got all these fellas home in one piece. I feel like I'm…."

"Tempting Fate?" Bailey finished, when Hogan's voice trailed off.

Hogan took another swallow of his coffee. "I guess so, yeah."

Bailey learned forward and tried to look in Hogan's eyes. "Every time we hit the skies, we're taking our lives in our hands," he said softly. "Every time we head out on a mission, we're tempting Fate. Every time we put on one of those heated suits, we're taking a chance that it'll be the outfit we wear to the grave." He paused and watched as Hogan's eyes looked into his coffee cup, at his hands, at the wall. Finally they came to rest on Bailey. "If there's anyone I'd rather take that chance with again, Colonel Hogan, it's you. And if worse comes to worst and we're shot down… well, I'm sure you'll find a way to get us out of Germany again."

Hogan looked back into his coffee cup. "This is a dangerous mission, Mark," he said softly. "The Krauts are going to be guarding the laboratory like it's Fort Knox and the Crown Jewels combined. We don't have a confirmed location, and I won't even know Initial Point until we're practically on top of the target, so the run could be short and deadly. That's a lot to ask of fellas who've gone through the Hell of being shot down once already."

Bailey shrugged. "One mission is like another," he said. "But we'll be confident, Colonel. We'll be with you."

"Don't remind me."

"What, just because we got shot down once, don't you think you can trust us?" Bailey asked, knowing the response he would get. "We were all a bit unlucky, you know."

Hogan raised his eyebrows. "Of course that's not it," he replied, surprised. "Being shot down does _not_ reflect on the abilities of a flyer. It's damned unlucky, but it doesn't mean the men aren't qualified."

Bailey drained the last of his coffee. "Then start listening to your own words, Papa. And apply that same principle to yourself," he urged. "You know, I had a hard time accepting it in the beginning, but you really _did_ continue fighting after you got to Stalag 13. You could have gotten out, but you didn't because you knew you could do so much good just by being there." Hogan lowered his eyes. "What you do gives guys hope. It makes us proud. It flies in the face of everything the Krauts think they have going for them. You've gotta know how that makes us feel. When we go back up into that sky, we know there's someone fighting for us down below. And that feels _good_, Papa."

Never one to let Hogan off the hook, Bailey let the ensuing silence take over the room without filling it. Finally the Lieutenant spoke up again softly. "They told me ahead of time that you were coming back, Papa, because I was in your old crew. They didn't have to ask me if I wanted to fly with you again. I begged them before they had a chance." Hogan tilted his head, still looking at Bailey intensely, touched. "And I made sure they had a plane that would do you justice." Bailey stood up. "Are you allowed down on the field?"

Hogan shook his head. "Not yet. I'll be down there early tomorrow, though; you can bet on it." He pursed his lips. "It's been a long time since I've been in the pilot's seat of a B-17. I might be rusty."

Bailey grinned. "Stick to the checklist. That's what you always said to _me_, right?"

Hogan laughed softly. "Yeah. Stick to the checklist, and even if your mind is in the States, you'll get safely to Europe…." He nodded. "I remember."

"Maybe you'll follow orders for once—this time your own!"


	8. All Through the Night

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Schultz, _please_, pull back the curtains and move out of the way; I want to have some light in here!"

Klink was sitting up on the sofa in his quarters, waving his arm back and forth at the Sergeant of the Guard, while Schultz was pacing back and forth in front of the window, looking out every few seconds across the compound.

"Oh, _no_, _Herr_ Kommandant. You must have complete rest! Put those papers away and lie down—and _close your eyes_!" Had Schultz just seen that Sergeant, Olsen, rounding Barracks Two, throwing a baseball up against the wall of the building? Why didn't he go back inside?

Klink started to put aside some of the paperwork he had almost unwillingly brought with him to his quarters. He had wanted to rest completely, but with the ever-impending threat of a visit from General Burkhalter, and pencil-pushers in Berlin wanting reports in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate—he had decided it would be in his best interest to keep working, or at least seem to be; he hadn't gotten very much done with Schultz walking back and forth around his room for the last few hours. "Schultz, don't you have rounds to do, prisoners to keep in line?"

The Sergeant turned to Klink with wide eyes, then settled into his own version of smooth and soothing. "I asked Corporal Langenscheidt to look after my rounds today, Kommandant, so I could spend all my time here looking after you myself." He moved in and tried to adjust a pillow, only resulting in whipping it out from behind Klink so the Colonel knocked his head against the back of the sofa.

Klink sighed as his papers slid onto the floor. "Thank you, Schultz. I think I'll take a nap." He lay down and snatched the pillow back from the Sergeant. "Please close the curtains."

"Of course, _Herr_ Kommandant. If you are sure that is what you want!"

"No, I'm not sure. But if I don't do what you say, Schultz, I think you will end up killing me. Close the curtains, and leave me alone."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Carter? What are you doing in _here_?"

Carter looked up from Hogan's lower bunk, where he had wandered after lights-out when sleep refused to come. He had switched on the small desk lamp, looking for Heaven-knew-what, and had finally ended up just sitting on the bunk, staring at the floor. He blinked thoughtfully. "Hi, Kinch."

"You're up awfully late, pal. Can't sleep?"

"I've been thinking about Colonel Hogan. I wonder where he is and what he's doing."

"Well, Andrew, he'll be at an airbase somewhere, and since it's midnight there, I'd say he's sleeping—probably had an early night. It's going to be a daylight raid, so he'll have to be up in just a couple of hours," Kinch said quietly.

"Yeah." Carter was silent for awhile, unmoving. Then: "Do you think he'll be okay, Kinch?"

Until now, Kinch had stayed near the door to Hogan's quarters, hoping to draw the young Sergeant out and to bed. But at Carter's question, he came in and sat down next to him. "I hope so, Carter."

"He hasn't flown for a long time, has he," Carter observed, not really needing confirmation.

"It's not something you forget how to do quickly," Kinch replied.

"Oh, I know," Carter said hastily. "It's just I was wondering how he must be feeling. He seemed to really love being a pilot."

"I suppose so. But almost anything is better than being a prisoner of war."

"I wonder if he wishes he could go back to flying instead of running the operation."

Kinch raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter, Andrew? Wishing you could have gone, too?"

At this, Carter let out a light laugh. "Nah," he answered. "I guess I just think it would be hard for the Colonel to have a chance to be back in the air, knowing he'll have to give it all up again on Friday to come back to Stalag 13."

Kinch smiled softly. "I suppose it could be," he admitted. "Still, Colonel Hogan does what he has to do, and I'm sure he'll miss us enough to come running back tomorrow night when it's all over."

More silence. "Do you think he'll be okay, Kinch?"

"Yeah, Andrew. I think he'll be okay."

And the pair went back to their own bunks, to wait out the sleepless night.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan stared up at the ceiling, sighing as he accepted that sleep was going to be hard in coming tonight. _I need to count the nails in the boards,_ he thought wryly, realizing that it was indeed unusual to want to see the ceiling of a prison camp hut to relax. But when he was at Stalag 13 and his mind was racing, he always seemed to be able to drift off if he had the distraction of the nails in the ceiling boards. Here, all he had was corrugated iron. It was hardly the same.

He was returning to the skies tomorrow, the first time he'd be piloting a heavy bomber in two years. Hogan had always loved flying, and had always felt confident in the pilot's seat. But this time, it was different. This time, he had behind him two years of work as the head of a sabotage and intelligence unit where he saw the war up close and personal. Two years of living out of the pockets of four other men whose lives he held as dearly as his own. Two years of discovering that he could operate not just from the air, but on the ground. Two years of plotting and planning. And two years of secrets which he knew if he was ever recaptured, he would have to keep, no matter how much the Germans tortured or threatened him. _And I could do it, _he told himself suddenly, desperate to confirm that belief within himself. _I've done it before; I could do it again._ Then he added as a silent prayer, _God, I hope. But please, please don't let it happen again._

Hogan pushed the pillow off his bed, unable tonight to get comfortable with the luxury of something soft beneath his head. _It __**won't **__happen again_, he told himself forcefully as he turned to face the wall of his private quarters. _And if it does, I'll find a way out for good._ Hogan thought of the pill Butler had given him to use if the torture became unbearable and he was afraid he would break, and shuddered at the thought. _I won't be getting any sleep tonight. I wonder if I can sleep inside the Fortress when she's on her way east?_

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"I don't know how you do it, Hogan," Butler said to the Colonel in the wee hours of the morning. "Every single man you spoke to yesterday has agreed to fly. Not a single one wanted to miss the chance to be in the air with you."

Hogan nodded once, humbled by the men's confidence in him to ensure they didn't end up being shot down again, even if some of them had been plucked out of the woods without ever having spoken to a German. "Some men thrive on risk, sir," he replied. Butler smiled knowingly at the young officer's modesty. "Is the briefing room set up again?"

"Yes, Hogan. You'll talk to the squadron leaders in thirty minutes. Now that these men have been signed on, the rest of the crews are being made up of other men with whom you will never have contact." Hogan nodded. "We've pinpointed Beuel, just outside of Bonn, as well as a secondary target at Weisbaden. We can't let even a single trip go to waste."

"No, sir."

"After that, you'll have a good breakfast—"

"Real eggs, right?" Hogan asked with an almost humorless laugh. It was well known among flyers that those slated for a raid got the real thing, while those staying down for the day got powdered eggs. Whether it was intended as extra sustenance for the work ahead, or as a flyer's possible proverbial "last meal" was uncertain.

"Absolutely, real eggs," Butler replied with a nod and a small smile. "Then you'll meet your own crew for the day, and you'll soon be on your way." The General paused, taking in the ever-more-serious expression descending on the younger man's face. "It's the gold ring we're going for, son. We have to reach out and grab for it. I know we're asking a lot of you, but in the end, you need to think of it as being just like every other mission." _Except your last one_. "We take calculated risks, and the men accompanying you accept that, too. So tell me, Hogan. How do you feel?"

"Fine, sir. It's just like every other mission." _But this time it's me who's picked the target… and it had better be right. Powdered eggs are starting to sound great right about now._

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"These men will be flying with you today, Colonel Hogan," Butler announced. Hogan looked at the men, all standing at full attention and saluting smartly before them. He wanted to say their faces were all familiar. He wanted to say he knew all their names. But he couldn't, because it wasn't true. But the looks on the faces of the men staring back at him told him a different story: they knew Hogan, and they were eager to be in the sky with him.

Butler and Hogan returned their salute in unison, then Butler offered the Colonel a small, knowing smile. "Lieutenant Bailey, of course, you know," he said. Hogan nodded. Bailey grinned but came to full attention, which Hogan acknowledged by inclining his head. "I'll leave the rest of the introductions to Bailey, Hogan, and I'll meet you in my office in half an hour."

Hogan nodded again. "Yes, sir."

When Butler left, Bailey assumed the role of host. "Your co-pilot, Colonel Hogan, will be Captain Bill Stuckey."

Stuckey stepped out of the line of men and pulled himself up respectfully. "Colonel Hogan, sir."

Hogan nodded his acknowledgement. "Captain."

"I've watched your flying career with great interest, sir," Stuckey announced.

"Really?" Hogan couldn't help but ask. _Not much of a career at the moment._

"Yes, sir," Stuckey said, falling out of attention long enough to physically release his enthusiasm. "You're one of the best flyers I've ever heard of, sir. A flying ace, able to bring in planes that were practically falling apart. Goldilocks is a legend sir, and so are you."

Hogan pursed his lips and thought before answering. A quick glance at Bailey told him that, as usual, the Lieutenant was seeing right into his head. Bailey nodded, slowly. "I don't feel like much of a legend, Stuckey," Hogan said, not unkindly. "I feel like a pilot who had a great crew and who had a fantastic plane, and who had a lot of help from the Man Upstairs. I think I'll feel the same way today."

Stuckey smiled and nodded respectfully. "I hope so, Colonel," he said. "I'm proud to be flying with you."

"Thank you," Hogan said genuinely.

"Colonel, this is Lieutenant Glen Cheeks, Bombardier," Bailey said, indicating a young, grinning, dark-haired man.

"Colonel," Cheeks said, saluting.

Hogan returned the unnecessary gesture. _These fellas sure are keen,_ he thought.

"They call me Smooch, sir," Cheeks said, his smile continuing.

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "Smooch?"

"That's right Colonel," he said. "Y'see, my name is Cheeks, sir. And cheeks are either on your face, or… well… not. And when I get really angry with someone, I tend to tell them they can kiss my—"

"I get it, Lieutenant, I get it," Hogan said hastily, trying not to laugh as the others in the room started giggling like schoolboys. "Smooch."

"Roy Paynter, your engineer," Bailey said next, as another youngster stepped out. Hogan again inwardly registered his amazement at how young some of these men looked. "Steve Olander, your radio operator." Not to be outdone, both men saluted Hogan, and he was relieved that he could return the gesture to them both at once.

"And of course your gunners." As Bailey said their names, each man stepped forward and offered a clean salute. "Fred Clark, left waist. Tom Mattingly, right waist. Tail gunner, Wayne Flanders. Ball turret gunner, Shaun Wade."

Hogan completed what he hoped was a final salute and looked over his group carefully. "Welcome, gentlemen," he said. "We're in for a hell of a ride. I hope you're up for it."

"We are, sir," Cheeks said immediately. Hogan smiled. "I mean," the Lieutenant amended, as though thinking better of his outburst, "I mean I know it won't be a milk run, Colonel Hogan, but I sure am glad to be going out there with you."

"I appreciate your confidence, Smooch," Hogan said. The young man grinned and relaxed as Hogan's use of his nickname signaled his acceptance by the Colonel. "I don't know how you boys ended up getting assigned to my plane, but I want you to know that I appreciate your confidence in me. It makes a big difference." _It really does._

Wade spoke up shyly. "It's kind of… sweet revenge, Colonel," he said. "I mean, we've all gone back up there since we got back from Germany… but going back up there against them with the man who helped us get home… well, that's just the icing on the cake. Sir."

Hogan smiled softly. "I guess it is," he said. "It'll feel good being up there with you fellas, too."

"They'll never know what hit 'em, sir," Mattingly predicted.

Hogan nodded. "If I'm lucky, you're absolutely right."


	9. On Their Way

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Bailey didn't say anything as the vehicle approached the plane on the field. He contented himself with watching Hogan's face transform as he came closer to a B-17 than he had in almost two years. Frowning when still some distance away, as they came closer Hogan seemed to be more in awe of the giant aircraft. Respect for the plane showed clearly on his face, as did the mixed emotions that filled him. Hogan was thrilled, scared, overwhelmed, and searching. Answers would never come to some of the questions in his mind and in his heart.

The Lieutenant stopped the jeep and nodded at Hogan to get out. "I'll wait here for you," he said. "You need some time alone with her." Hogan nodded, words strangely caught in his throat. "It's okay, Papa," Bailey said softly. "And remember—she's all yours."

Hogan got out of the jeep and walked around the Fortress, taking in all the sights and smells of the plane—the metal, the oil, the fuel. He could see the crew chief and his assistants doing their exterior check of the Flying Fortress. One man was standing on each massive wing; another was on the ground in front of the nose. Hogan ignored them, knowing they had work to do if this bird was going to be in the sky today. Slowly he walked to the front of the aircraft, his eyes following the curve and the lines of the plane, taking time to find the rivets, the hatches, the seams.

Then finally he saw it.

Hogan was consumed by emotion as he looked at the words and the picture emblazoned on the side of the Army-green B-17. A large brown bear wearing Air Corps wings, Colonel's eagles and a crush cap. Rising from flames, reaching out to crush a Nazi _swastika_ beneath its massive paw. A tiny cartoon of a stunned, Hitler-moustached German underneath the hated insignia with a word balloon next to him that marveled, "He's back for his revenge!" And finally, in large letters of fire, the words "Sweet Phoenix" written under it all.

Hogan swallowed with difficulty and clenched his jaw against the burning behind his eyes. What the men had intended by the nose art was clear. Hogan was Papa Bear—a phoenix rising from the ashes of Goldilocks—and he was getting his sweet revenge against the Germans by coming back and flying once again. It was a touching and heartfelt tribute, and Hogan felt it deep in his soul. He vowed to himself again that he would fight as hard as he had ever done before, to make sure the men getting onboard this plane with him would all come back in one piece. Their trust and faith in him could not be in vain.

He came up underneath the aircraft and climbed inside. Once he was sitting at the controls of the B-17, Hogan breathed deeply. He ran his hands lightly over the panel of switches, flexed his fingers on the throttles, and looked out through the Plexiglas onto the field surrounding him. He looked right to the co-pilot's seat, now empty and waiting for Bill Stuckey to occupy it. For the briefest moment, he saw Trevor Montgomery, clear as a bell, smiling back at him, making a wisecrack about Hogan being the Papa Bear of the 504th Bomb Group, laughing as he refused the moniker of Mama Bear for himself. And then, just as suddenly, Hogan saw the man lying there dead, mortally wounded by flak and gunfire from the last mission they had flown in Goldilocks before she was shot down over Hamburg in July of 1942. There had been nothing they could do for him then, and under the circumstances, they couldn't even get his body home for his family to bury.

Hogan drew his eyes away from the vision and looked back into the body of the plane. Hollow, echoing images played before his eyes. He smiled as he heard the banter of his men before heading out on a mission. They were always hoping for a "milk run," a raid with minimal resistance from the Germans. But they knew better than to believe they'd often get the blessedly easy mission, and so they would pretend, boldly, that the idea of heavy flak and fighter resistance didn't bother them. "Just pick off ol' Mr. Kraut," he'd heard Doolittle shout through the interphone. "Got him right there, sir—oops! Spilled his milk. Poor, dear Mr. Kraut!"

They'd shared coffee and loud stories of bravery in the mess hall before heading out, and interrogation and exhaustion when they came home. And when there was trouble, they'd close ranks—inseparable. Never one without the other—until that terrible summer day when Goldilocks went down in a hail of gunfire and flame, and the crew of the ill-fated bomber was separated for good.

Hogan drew in a gasping breath as he realized he had immersed himself fully in the past, and now, here in the present, he was trembling with emotion. _Heaven and Hell being in this plane_, he thought. _I belong here. This plane represents freedom. And yet…_ He looked again at the empty co-pilot's seat and out on the field stretched before him. _And yet now I'm just as much a prisoner here as I am at Stalag 13._

Hogan was suddenly startled out of his private thoughts by a voice from behind him. "Excuse me, sir. We have to finish the pre-flight inspection." The crew chief looked at Hogan almost apologetically.

"Oh—uh—of course you do," Hogan said, quickly getting up out of the pilot's seat. "I was just—uh—getting reacquainted with…" Hogan couldn't find the right words. "I'll get out of your way."

Hogan awkwardly made his way past the crew chief and climbed out of the plane. Then he got back in the jeep next to Bailey, and they drove away without looking back.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"I took the liberty of getting you your gear, Colonel," Bailey said as he led Hogan down to the equipment room. "You don't have a footlocker any more, and there are things we need, right?"

Hogan's muscles tightened as he let it sink in that each minute was taking him closer to this raid. _Settle down, Rob. It's just performance anxiety. You've done it nearly fifty times. It's a walk in the park—a big, blue park._ He nodded stiffly. "Right."

Bailey glanced at Hogan as they walked to the private room that had been set aside for the Colonel. Like the Lieutenant, Hogan was already dressed in his coveralls, shoes and sheepskin-lined leather flying boots. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Hogan kept walking, eyes straight ahead.

"Okay." Bailey let the obvious tension in Hogan's voice and body go without further comment, and opened the door. "Must feel funny, being ushered away from everyone's view all the time."

Hogan quickly surveyed the room and stepped inside without answering. His eyes alit on a parachute, and his stomach tightened. _A familiar feeling_, he thought with some relief.

"Your flying suit, of course, and your leather helmet, complete with ear flaps," Bailey said, concentrating purposely on the equipment and not the officer with him. "Your Mae West, parachute, harness—chest pack for you, and for Stuckey, of course." Hogan nodded; those in the cockpit didn't have room for anything but chest 'chutes. "Goggles, headsets, throat microphone…"

Hogan let the list wash over him. He knew it all like he had just done it yesterday. And maybe he _had_, he thought; in his mind, maybe he was reliving it every day. "Where's my gun?" he asked softly.

Bailey frowned slightly. "What's that you said, Colonel?"

Hogan's mind went back to his last bombing mission, and his last resistance as a pilot to the enemy. He couldn't remember much of it—but he remembered his gun. Holding his pistol was what made him feel slightly secure in the midst of his futile attempt to avoid being captured by the Germans. No matter that in the end he was still captured, abused, and singled out for "special treatment" by the Nazis; the .45 had given him some sense of control, at least until it was taken from him as he convulsed in agony on the ground from a stunning blow, leaving him feeling utterly defeated. "Where's my gun?" he repeated in a voice close to a whisper.

At this Bailey paused, recalling what he had been told when he made it to Stalag 13 as an escapee: that Hogan had been taken to the brink of death; that if he had died it would have been a mercy; that Hogan had withstood more than anyone could have asked him to and not broken. Bailey had never heard the whole story, and now, with just this small glimpse of a post-prison camp Papa Bear, he could see changes that perhaps others not as close to him could not. And one of the biggest was a perceived sadness that Hogan tried to keep hidden as he looked over his plane, his gear, his men. It was understandable, but disheartening to Baby Bear, who had always depended on Papa Bear's buoyancy to see everyone through the tough times. _But maybe it wasn't fair to expect that of you in the first place._

"Are you sure you want to take one, Papa?" Bailey asked gently. "I mean, the word is that if you're caught by civilians—"

"I want my gun," Hogan said firmly. He thought again of the cyanide capsule that he had intended to throw away, but after considerable thought, had not. "I can't give away my secrets, Mark," he added quietly. "They involve too many other people."

The implication of Hogan's words made Bailey's blood run cold. After what felt like minutes, he nodded numbly. "Your pistol is here, Papa," he said almost inaudibly. Hogan took it and stored it in his clothing without a word. Bailey forced himself to speak more brightly when he added, "And your escape kit, of course."

Hogan let a small grin flit across his face. "I think I could make the map a little more detailed for the boys," he said. "And some of those translation sheets leave a lot to be desired. But I'll be more than happy with the candy and the razors—they're great for bribing the guards at camp. You'd think _they're_ the prisoners, the way they jump up and down for the goodies when the Red Cross packages arrive."

"Sounds like you have them all under control," Bailey said.

"Let's just say some fat guards will be getting even fatter when I get back to Stalag 13," Hogan answered. Bailey breathed a little easier; Hogan's humor was returning, and he was clearly looking ahead. "Come on," Hogan said. "It's time for you to get to the Ready Room with the others. I'll meet you at the truck."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Hogan stepped out of the back of the six-by-six truck at the dispersal area and the hardstand where Sweet Phoenix was parked and waiting for her crew. The others hopped out behind him and started toward the aircraft. Hogan stopped and stood just looking, and was mildly surprised by the gentle voice at his left side. "You ready?"

Hogan continued looking at the Flying Fortress. "Yeah, Mark. I'm ready."

"It's nothing we haven't done before, Papa."

"I know." Hogan nodded absentmindedly. He glanced down at his parachute harness. "I know."

Bailey squared off to face his former Commander. "So let's knock 'em dead, eh?" he suggested. He smiled kindly. "We can win one for the boys."

Hogan felt his heart jump into his throat, making his eyes water unexpectedly. _The boys._ The crew of his old plane, Goldilocks. The last count was still four dead, two missing. The others had either been put into prison camps—or, in Bailey's case, escaped. There were six men not coming home. There could be so many more today facing the same fate. Suddenly Hogan felt the strength of his men—those from Goldilocks, from Stalag 13, and from Sweet Phoenix—and he looked again intently at the plane he was about to take up in the sky. "That we _can_, Baby Bear," Hogan said with a slight nod. "For _all_ the boys."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The smell of the gasoline and a damp, musty odor of fear and anticipation permeated the plane as Hogan and the others climbed aboard. Swallowing any final feelings of uncertainty, the Colonel made his way to the cockpit and once again looked over the controls. All his gear was now on: his electric shoes ready to keep his feet warm, his coveralls and flight suit pulled on over heavy woolen underwear, his hands in thin gloves that, while not as warm as the fleece-lined ones normally provided, were more practical for flying and flicking small switches on the massive panels before him.

Hogan took his place in the left front seat, and all of a sudden, he was back in Bomb Group Command mode. He looked out across the field and saw other B-17s being boarded and readied for flight. He saw trucks leaving the area, and crews making last-minute checks. Then he turned and saw his own men—Stuckey, beside him, looking over the checklist, Olander, Paynter and the others, all preparing for the maiden flight of this group as a unit, checking their stations, their oxygen, and their power points for their heated suits. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and with adrenalin surging through him, he pulled on his microphone, headsets and leather helmet and started the check of the crew.

"Wade, you okay down there?"

"Check, Colonel!" came the voice through the interphone.

"Flanders!"

"Yo ho ho!"

"Mattingly!"

"Present, sir!"

"You there, Clark?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Colonel!"

Hogan smiled. "Olander, where are you?"

"Here, sir!"

"Paynter?"

"Ready, willing and able, Colonel!"

"Bailey?"

"Ready when you are, Papa Bear."

Hogan paused at the nickname and accepted the calm that always came with the thought of his Baby Bear being in control in front of the plane. "Smooch?"

"Yes, sir! Colonel, I'm ready to roll!"

Hogan looked to his right, where he could see his co-pilot grinning from ear to ear. "Stuckey?"

The Captain looked at him. "Here, sir." Pulling his microphone away from his face, Stuckey added meaningfully, "Here, and proud of it, sir."

Hogan held his look for a few seconds, then nodded. "Thanks."

"Exercising turbos to fifteen hundred RPMs," Stuckey reported.

"Five times today, Stuckey. It was close to freezing overnight."

"Yes, sir," the Captain replied.

Hogan listened as the sounds of the plane started to fill his ears. "Trim tabs set to zero. Oil temperature forty-six degrees." He flicked another switch. "Brakes."

"Brakes set," Stuckey responded.

"Checking generators." Hogan turned them on and studied them. "Ampere output twenty-eight and a half on each. All okay."

"Check mags—throttle up to stop," Stuckey said. "Manifold pressure okay. Turbos off, waistgates open."

"RPMs at twenty-four eighty." Hogan pulled back slowly on the throttle, applying the same pressure to all engines. "Seven-one-three Sweet Phoenix to tower. Request clearance for takeoff."

"Tower to seven-one-three, you are go for takeoff, repeat, _go_ for takeoff."

"Lock tail wheel," Stuckey said.

Hogan pressed down hard with his feet. "Parking brakes engaged." He checked the heading on the gyro-compass with the heading on the runway. "Generators okay."

"Hold brakes," Stuckey said, looking at the manifold gauge.

Hogan's muscles began to strain under the pull of the plane. Sweet Phoenix was longing to race down the runway as her engine power increased, but they had to wait until just the right time. Hogan felt the Fortress trembling as though in anticipation of the run. Or was it him? The tail of the plane began to lift slightly as the B-17's power increased.

Stuckey continued preparation. "Holding… holding… manifold at twenty-five inches."

"Brakes off," Hogan said, slowly decreasing the pressure from his feet on the parking brake. The B-17 surged forward.

"Speed thirty-five… forty-five… fifty…" Stuckey announced.

"Rudder under control."

"Speed at sixty-five… seventy-seven… eighty-five…"

"All crew prepare for takeoff," Hogan said.

"Speed one hundred."

"Takeoff. Sweet Phoenix, here we go!" Hogan pulled back on the control column as the great plane slowly left the earth, then he gave a quick kick on the brakes to stop the wheels from spinning and ordered all gear up, to get rid of the drag on the plane. He checked the panel lights, then joined as one with his plane as its speed increased and it gained altitude.

"All in readiness, Colonel," Stuckey reported a short time later. "Airspeed one-thirty."

"Okay. Begin power reduction. Manifold pressure dropping."

"RPMs down. Cowl flaps locked. Check landing gear."

Hogan looked out of the plane to his left. "Up left."

Stuckey nodded, looking to his right. "Up right."

Paynter offered a thumbs-up on the position of the tail wheel when Hogan turned to make sure all was well behind them. "Switch to neutral," Hogan said. "Maintain one-sixty on the climb. Watch the manifold pressure."

"Check. Approaching eight thousand feet," Stuckey stated. "Shutting off carburetor air filters."

As they reached ten thousand feet, Hogan felt himself finally settling into the work at hand. "Oxygen masks on. Switch on oh-two. Heated suits plugged in. Manifold pressure to twenty-eight inches, RPMs to sixteen hundred. Fuel mixtures on auto-lean. This is it, boys; we're on our way."

A few cheers and choice remarks came through Hogan's headsets, and he smiled. _Okay, Lord. We're all here now… and we're all in Your hands. Thy will be done… but please, let Thy will be that all these boys get home._


	10. Diversions

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Klink impatiently waved off the restraining hand of his Sergeant of the Guard and stood on the porch of his office overlooking the compound. "Leave me alone, Schultz. I told you, I feel much better!"

Schultz refused to be deterred. "But _Herr_ Kommandant, you might get a chill and have to go back to _bed_!" The man ran his big eyes across the camp yard in search of the prisoner who had passed himself off as Colonel Hogan.

"Nonsense!" Klink said dismissively, heading down the steps. "I told you, it must have just been a short-term illness; I am feeling perfectly fine now, so you can stop your fussing and your pacing and get on with your work." Klink briefly raised his eyes to the sky. Even if he hadn't been feeling better, he probably would have gone running out of his quarters by now; Schultz's incessant chatter and his nervous marching around the sitting room had driven the Kommandant up the wall.

"But I do not want to _leave_ you, Kommandant. What if you _need_ me?"

"If I need _you_, Schultz, then I am sicker than I thought." Klink took in a deep breath. "Now, where is Colonel Hogan?"

The already pasty skin of Sergeant Schultz took on an even whiter tone. "Colonel Hogan?"

"Yes, Schultz, Colonel Hogan. You know, the loudmouth American officer who usually appears the minute I find something better to do than discuss the Geneva Convention with him—Colonel Hogan. Where is he?"

"Oh, well, I do not _know_, _Herr_ Kommandant. Perhaps he is sick, too," the guard fumbled. He looked around again quickly, hoping not to see anyone.

"Hogan has already been sick this week!" Klink said, almost as a protest. "General Burkhalter is very anxious to come back here and get Hogan started on that broadcast. I will have to find out how far along he is in preparation."

Schultz bodily stopped the Kommandant as he was about to stride toward Barracks Two. "Schultz, _what are you doing_, you dunderhead?" the officer burst, squirming madly to get away from the guard.

"_Herr _Kommandant," Schultz began, trying to think up something as he spoke, "if you have been sick, you may pass it on to the prisoners."

"I'm not worried about passing anything on to the prisoners!" Klink said. "I told you before, I am perfectly _fine_!" And he continued walking toward the barracks.

"But _Herr_ Kommandant," Schultz, said, as at last a thought came to him, "if Colonel Hogan is sick, he might pass it back on to _you_."

"Don't be ridiculous; he couldn't _possibly_ pass it back on—" Klink came to a halt. Schultz stopped right beside him. "Schultz, go and find out how far Colonel Hogan is in his preparations for the broadcast and tell him that General Burkhalter is a very impatient man!"

"_Jawohl_, _Herr_ Kommandant!" Schultz replied, coming to attention and saluting.

Klink returned the salute and turned on his heel. "I'll be in my office," he said. "With the windows shut! Don't let Hogan in unless he's been fumigated!"

Schultz let out an audible sigh of relief and made his way to the prisoners' huts.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The smell of burnt cordite mixed with the odor of oil and fuel in the plane, since the gunners had all tested their weapons rather vigorously—and with loud voices—over the English Channel. The chatter of the men was a background buzz to Hogan, who was lost in his own thoughts, fiddling with the plugs extending from his suit and boots. He stamped his feet on the floor of the cockpit, then, irritated, cursed softly under his breath.

The touch of Stuckey's hand on his arm nearly made him jump. "Colonel Hogan, are you okay, sir?" the Captain asked.

Hogan was surprised by the question. "Why do you ask?" he replied.

Stuckey shrugged. "Well, sir, I've tried to talk to you twice now, but I think your mind was still down on the base." Hogan smiled weakly under his oxygen mask. "Plus," Stuckey added, his tone growing sober, "you're looking pretty serious there, sir—and I noticed you wiggling your plugs. Is your suit not working?"

Hogan hadn't realized he'd been frowning as they soared across to Europe. But he had registered at some stage that his feet had been aching, and were now tingling, like they were "falling asleep". And while he wanted to believe it was just that he had "softened up" from not wearing flying boots for a couple of years, he was smart enough to know better. His feet had frozen once before, thankfully on the way _back_ from a raid, and so the damage and treatment were minimal. But now, enroute to a target, his electric shoes were not working, and his attempts to get them to function had failed, and no amount of foot-wiggling was going to make a difference in what would be temperatures of up to sixty degrees below freezing. The word _frostbite_ flitted through his brain; then he let it go as something he could not change, and concentrated on listening to the banter of the crew. Apparently far too intently, if he had missed Stuckey's attempts at conversation.

"The shoes don't seem to be," Hogan said shortly. "Not much we can do about it now."

"Should we fly lower, sir?" Stuckey asked, "You know, freezing doesn't happen below ten thousand—"

Hogan shook his head. "The timing of the raid requires we stick to our original arrangements. We can't change altitude just because I get pins and needles."

Stuckey didn't lose his worried look but accepted the response. "If you say so, sir."

"How long till we pick up our escorts?" Hogan asked suddenly, changing the subject.

Stuckey considered. "About half an hour," he answered.

Hogan nodded. "Can't wait to see them," he said. _I always wanted to see them…._

Hogan's co-pilot had heard enough stories of the Colonel's protest of unescorted daylight bombings to know it was a sore point for him. And he knew that Hogan was proud the fighters were in place for the men now. "It's a beautiful sight, Colonel," he said. "They seem to come out of nowhere… and those white vapor trails… We call them our Little Friends."

Hogan nodded and gave a small smile. "Little… but deadly." He sighed, almost too softly to be heard. "They should have been there all along."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"He should be over Germany soon," Le Beau said to no one in particular. He sat down at the common room table in the barracks and stared at his idle hands. Normally quite a busy person, at the moment his mind could not focus on any one task, and so he simply looked around the hut, frowning.

"Yeah. I sure hope he gives it to 'em for what they did to him, boy," Carter said from his bunk.

The uncharacteristic aggression surprised the others. "Those are very strong words for you, Andrew," Newkirk observed, taking a drag on yet another cigarette.

Kinch watched as Carter shrugged uncomfortably. "I-I just want the Colonel to come back soon, that's all," he said. "And I thought what General Burkhalter did was rotten. He didn't have to drug the Colonel and bring him out to that lab, did he?"

"But, Andrew, look at it this way—if he hadn't, the gov'nor wouldn't be able to do something about the place _now_, would he?"

Carter's frown deepened even as he shook his head. "No. But it wasn't _fair_, Newkirk. General Burkhalter would have _known_ it'd drive the Colonel crazy!"

Kinch finally spoke up calmly. "That was the idea, Carter." Andrew looked up at his friend. "One of Burkhalter's jobs is to demoralize the prisoners. If he gets Colonel Hogan feeling defeated, then the rest of us will follow."

"Well, he figured the Colonel wrong, Kinch, didn't he? I mean, he had to figure him _wrong_. Colonel Hogan'd never give up, never!" Carter said, his voice rising.

"You don't have to convince _us_, Andrew."

"That's right; _le Colonel_ is out there now, proving them wrong, _n'est-ce pas_?" Le Beau said. He turned to Carter. "Don't worry, _mon ami_, in a little while the lousy Krauts will not know what hit them, and we will have _Colonel_ Hogan back tonight." He stood up, suddenly unable to stay inactive. "He will be hungry. I am going to get some things together to make him a beautiful meal. And if he is too tired to eat it tonight, it will be ready for him in the morning. He will get a hero's welcome."

Carter smiled. "I think I'll get a couple of extra blankets and see if I can't make his bunk really comfortable. He's gonna need a long rest after the raid."

Newkirk tossed his cigarette butt in the stove and headed for Hogan's quarters. "And I'll make sure his uniform is neat and clean for him—you know how he likes to present himself 'just so' for the nice Krauts at morning roll call," he said. "Might even give the old eagles on his cap a bit of a shine."

Kinch shook his head and smiled. "I'll make sure the tunnel is clear and there's some chocolate to take to the pick-up point tonight. He can never resist a nibble, especially if he's been busy."

Le Beau patted Carter's arm on his way past. "You see, Carter? Everything will be back to normal in just a few hours. I don't know what you are worried about!" And he quickly hid his face from view, glad of the distraction, but still carrying his own fears.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"There they are, Colonel."

Hogan scanned the horizon and saw several formations of four P-47 Thunderbolts approaching fast. He watched, mesmerized, as the planes moved closer and closer, until he could quite clearly hear the low rumble of the motors, and an appreciative smile spread slowly across his face. One plane, clearly the leader, flew in close as the pilot let off a wave. Hogan nodded and offered a salute as the fighter barrel-rolled away and back into formation.

"Unbelievable," Hogan mumbled, not expecting the feeling that came with seeing those protectors buzzing around them.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Stuckey said.

Hogan nodded, captivated. "They sure are." He watched for another few seconds as three squadrons of a group moved into place above the bombers, then shook himself back to the work at hand. "Let's hope they don't have to earn their money today."

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Those fighters are looking pretty excited, Papa," radioed Bailey some time later.

Hogan scanned the skies carefully. "And they have good reason to—take a look," he said; "bandits two o'clock high."

Despite his determination not to, Hogan had gotten tenser as he watched the fighters flying around them. They reminded him of short, fat cigars—which made an incidental smile cross his lips as he thought of Klink's humidor—but they were far more dangerous than the stogies that sat waiting to be pilfered by the American. And now that they were darting up and down, to and fro in the skies, with enemy fighters in the distance, he felt his muscles tighten and the old sensations of excitement and fear mixing in his body and dancing up and down his spine.

Stuckey tightened his grip on the controls. "Calling planes into formation," he said. Then they listened as Olander radioed the squadrons into place. The tighter they were, the fewer German planes could get through. Hogan knew the Thunderbolts would make that part of the mission a bit less worrisome, but old habits die hard, and he couldn't help but watch to make sure all the men were pulling their Fortresses in close, so close that sometimes they felt the tips of the wings were almost touching.

"How the hell did they know?" Hogan wondered softly, not realizing he had spoken aloud until Bailey's voice came back at him through the interphone.

"Don't worry, Papa," the Lieutenant called. "They're always waiting for us at one point or another!"

Hogan blinked a couple of times, conscious of having to bring his mind fully to the task at hand. "Focke-Wulfs," Hogan observed, now focused and somber. "Dozens of them." He glanced right at Stuckey, whose eyes were staring straight ahead, and then he took in a deep breath and silently said a prayer. Not particularly spiritual but always conscious of God's protecting hand in his life, Hogan knew that many of the men flying sorties had discovered religion as a way to cope with the unrelenting pressure of being part of a Bomb Group, and he himself remembered being almost giddy with relief when he discovered that the Germans had left him his small Bible when he had been sent to Stalag 13. He thought of the book now, left sitting on his desk in camp, and couldn't help but wonder if he would get back tonight to read it.

That was one of the last thoughts Hogan could remember having of the camp, as reality started playing out in a vivid blur before his eyes. The enemy planes that had seemed so far away only seconds ago were now closer than he wanted them to be, and he watched as the P-47s maneuvered to try and give the bombers as much protection as possible, already firing off some rounds from the machine guns in their wings and trying to get the Jerries to move out and allow the Bomb Group through. Hogan's eyes were all over the sky, looking above, below, to the left and to the right. Watching the Thunderbolts, the Focke-Wulfs, and the other B-17s. And all the time more than aware that they were getting closer and closer to the drop site, and it would be up to him to decide whether to go ahead with the bombing, or go to the secondary target.

But first they had to get through this.


	11. Teamwork

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

----- ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

"Heads up!" shouted Bailey from the nose of the plane. "109s coming straight at us!"

Hogan's eyes locked onto the skies at twelve o'clock, only to see three German planes bearing down hard for a frontal attack. The Thunderbolts accompanying the group had engaged other planes on the left and right sides that were lining up to stage an attack on the Allied aircraft, but a handful had managed to avoid the Jugs and were pressing toward Sweet Phoenix and her formation at lightning speed. The Colonel drew in a breath and started evasive action, but the timing was impossible and the Focke-Wulfs were closing in, and without realizing it, Hogan held his breath as one German fighter pulled in so close, despite the opposition of their own guns and those of nearby Fortresses, that he was sure they would collide and end this mission almost before it started. Then at the last second, machine guns still firing away and peppering the bomber with bullets, the enemy plane pulled up, showing Hogan and his crew its belly, and drew away, nicking the wings of a nearby Fortress, and immediately being followed by an alert P-47 pilot who was determined to make the German pay for his insolence.

"Gee, that was a close one!" Smooch called out from the nose. "I nearly could have kissed his—"

"I'd rather you didn't have the chance," Hogan interrupted him, laughing despite the tension sitting knotted in his stomach. "Let's shoot it off instead, okay?"

"You betcha, Colonel!" shouted Wade from below.

Cheeks reported, "We've got some damage to the nose, Colonel—but the window's clean and we've still got our gun!"

Hogan let out a long breath. "Good," he said, relieved that his Baby Bear and Smooch were safe. "Make sure it keeps working! We don't have enough room in this plane for another pilot."

A barking laugh came through the interphone in reply.

"More trouble, Colonel," Flanders reported from the tail. "We've got three Huns looking for a fight back here."

"Give 'em Hell, Flanders!" shouted Olander.

"How are you fixed for cover?" Stuckey called.

The sound of a .50 caliber machine gun firing off started the answer. "Looking… good!" Flanders shouted back. "Hey, look at them turn tail and run!"

"Run? No way," Clark replied from the left gunner position. "They're heading up this way. Colonel Hogan, give us some flank for a clear shot! Turn her to the right, can you turn her to the right?"

"I've got 'im, Clarkie!" Wade called from the ball turret compartment.

_Teamwork_, Hogan thought approvingly. He banked the ship slightly, not wanting to deviate from the course they were on but knowing they still needed to take evasive action. "Any help from the Jugs?"

"They're holding off a whole mob of Krauts on the right flank," Mattingly reported. "What about your end, Flanders?"

"My _end_ is looking pretty busy!" the tail gunner replied. "And Holy Moses, there's a mean bastard of a 109 heading for Hammond."

Hogan winced as the fist holding his stomach squeezed hard. Then he looked left and back to try and see what was happening. He spotted the fighter that Clark had taken aim for deftly avoiding his gunfire, but thankfully it was moving away, though whether to line up another strike, Hogan didn't know. But beyond it, he could see Hammond's B-17, So's Your Old Man, valiantly firing as the fighter honed in, shooting its own cannons rapidly, incessantly. "Can we help him?" Hogan called.

"We're too close; we might hit some of our own!" Flanders replied.

Hogan cursed to himself.

"Thunderbolts to the rescue!" called Wade. Hogan felt a surge of relief at the call; of course, the fighter escort could help. "Go, fellas! Go get 'em!"

Hogan felt Sweet Phoenix jerk to the right as a loud explosion met his ears. "What's going on?" he called into the interphone.

It was too long before Paynter answered. "A cannon hit on the left flank, Colonel! Clark took it in the chest!"

Hogan's heart lurched. "Get pressure on it! Now!" he called. Nausea and memories swept through him.

It was Mattingly who replied. "Got him, sir!"

"Paynter, what's our ETA?"

"Still twenty minutes off, sir!" the engineer replied.

"Correct heading to target, thirteen degrees left!" Bailey called from in front of Hogan.

"Correcting heading," Stuckey acknowledged. He turned the plane back toward its destination.

Another shudder rocked the Fortress. "Rogue fighter at five o'clock low. There's no fighter cover for us there, Colonel!" Wade announced.

"Do what you can," Hogan replied. "We're turning toward target. Olander, check on the others; see if we can tighten this formation!"

"Yes, sir!"

The sound of the radioman's voice echoed in Hogan's ears as he tried to focus single-mindedly on the mission at hand. _Get the laboratory, get back to base. Get the laboratory, get back to base…._

"That nutcase is making a mess of our undercarriage!" Wade complained.

"Just make sure he doesn't make a mess of _you_," Hogan retorted, not remotely kidding.

"Don't worry, Colonel, I've got that covered!" Flanders called back.

Hogan continued aiming the B-17 toward its target, listening, waiting. Then a shockwave made the plane tremble even as an explosion met Hogan's ears. "Lost: one Kraut!" shouted Wade triumphantly.

Hogan nodded, satisfied, and continued his work as the men around him warned each other and chattered through the fear of battle. The smell of burnt gunpowder was now almost overwhelming, blending strangely with the odor of fuel and oil and, in Hogan's nose, the rubber and leather of the oxygen mask and helmet he was wearing. His nose tingled, and he wiggled it, ignoring the itch.

"Our escorts are leaving us, Colonel," Smooch announced a short time later.

Hogan nodded. The Thunderbolt pilots were brilliant at their jobs; there were a lot fewer enemy planes in the sky than there had been when the Group had first approached enemy airspace. But the P-47s' fuel tanks were small, limiting their occupants to short but intense spates of fighting, after which they would have to abandon the bombers, or risk crash-landing in the middle of German-occupied territory. _Thanks, fellas_, Hogan thought gratefully, as he watched the planes turn tail and head for home.

The Luftwaffe fighters put up a little more fuss, then started clearing the area; Hogan knew this meant that the Allies were getting closer to their target, and therefore, closer to German anti-aircraft guns—eighty-eight millimeter weapons, or FLAK batteries, as they were known.

Hogan urged Sweet Phoenix toward their target and tried to take advantage of the few seconds of quiet in the sky to prepare himself for what was ahead and take stock of what was past. The roar of the huge engines and the continuing jackhammer noise of the guns from his plane and those around her were masking what he knew must be the sounds of pain from Clark at the left waist flank. He forced himself to think clearly. "What's our status?" he asked.

"Got a bit of a hole near the left waist gun, Colonel, but the turret's still intact," Olander reported.

"How's Clark?"

"Doing it a bit tough, Colonel, but I can take over with him when it gets busy back here."

Hogan nodded. "Okay. Get him some morphine from the kit—and keep the pressure on. Clark, you holding up there?"

A weak affirmation was the answer. Hogan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was still a long way home. "We'll look after you, Clark. Don't give it a second thought. Make sure you fellas keep him as warm as you can—and yourselves, too. It's gonna get cold back there with a hole in the flank."

"Closing in on Initial Point, Colonel," Bailey announced. "You're going to need to start having a good look soon."

"I'm ready," Hogan answered.

The Colonel looked out through the Plexiglas and frowned. Predetermined flak—artillery aimed at specific planes from the anti-aircraft guns on the ground—was starting to explode around them, and as the lead plane, Hogan knew that Sweet Phoenix would be one of the main targets. It was well-known that only a couple of planes in a group were carrying bombsights, and the lead plane was always one of them. Burst shells created little puffs of black smoke in the sky, their shrapnel sounding like pebbles bouncing off a hot tin roof as it hit the bomber.

"They're pressing hard," Stuckey said.

Hogan nodded silently and pushed on as a thick, dark cloud started to darken the skies in front of the Allied planes. It was flak, and it was heavy. _So thick you could walk across it_, Hogan remembered airmen as describing it in the past. They were right, he thought; if Sweet Phoenix succumbed over it, she might just be held up in the air a few extra seconds by it. He adjusted the left rudder slightly with his feet. Now feeling as though he was carrying two lifeless blocks of wood at the end of his legs, doing this task did not bother him. As long as he pushed out of his mind the possibility of what might result from his condition when they got back to England.

Hogan carefully maneuvered the plane away from the flak bursts, absorbing the incredibly loud noises around him, more than once registering the "whoomph" sound of a near miss of flak, which caused the Flying Fortress to lift up as though riding on a wave from the blast effect of the enemy artillery firing up at them.

Hogan kept watch on the planes around them to see if any of them were getting laid waste to flak. Above and to their right, he could see as one plane took a hit near the nose, and listed from the impact. Another had two smoking engines, and yet a third had a wing so badly damaged Hogan was sure it wouldn't be getting back to England. His heart rose into his throat as he thought of the fate of the men aboard her. _Dead. Or back to a POW camp. We're too far from Stalag 13 to get them before they're captured._ He held tightly to the throttle. _Some of them have already been lucky once…. God, please let them be lucky again._

Sweet Phoenix's guns were firing non-stop, trying to waylay the shells before they reached the bombers' altitude. Still, they were feeling shrapnel from the exploding shells, shouting as pieces of it burst through sections of the hull. And in the middle of it all, a call from the right waist gunner as the plane suddenly pitched violently to the right. "Hit on the number four engine!" Mattingly reported.

"Any fire?" Hogan called.

"Not yet! Smoking, though, Colonel!"

Stuckey turned to Hogan. "Do we need to feather it sir?"

Hogan shook his head. "Not yet. We need the altitude and there's no fire."

"Approaching IP, Colonel!" called Paynter.

"Right." Hogan turned his full attention back to the sky in front of them, small black clouds warning them of danger. "Give me a point."

"Dead ahead, sir, one hundred forty-six degrees."

Hogan tried to see past the orange sparks bursting out of the black puffs of smoke. The plane rose up in front as a near-miss eruption from an Ack-Ack gun sent shockwaves through the air. The Colonel continued his study of the earth below. _Where… where…? Yes—there_. He squinted as though that would bring the building closer, and tried to remember his journey with Burkhalter only a few days ago. What was around them? What could he remember? He saw a river, and hills, and a large, fenced-in area with a brick building right in the middle of it. There was the path through the trees; was it really an S-shaped path? He couldn't tell for sure. Hogan strained to see the entry to the building; it was the only thing he knew for certain on sight. Everything else was just an educated guess. But no matter how hard he looked, a six-foot door was not visible from twenty thousand feet, and he sat back, frustrated, and decided to trust the other senses he had used that day, and his gut instinct now.

"That's it," he said.

"Good, because we're on Initial Point, Colonel," reported Paynter.

"Handing over, Smooch," Hogan said to the bombardier. "Make it good!"

"Will do, Colonel—I painted a great big red sloppy kiss on one of those bombs—and I hope Hitler gets it right in the mouth!"

"That location would be a switch," Wade chortled.

"Opening bomb bay doors," Olander reported.

Hogan nodded. "Switching to auto-pilot."

Hogan waited tensely as the bombardier called out corrections in heading as they approached the target area. There was little for a pilot to do now but adjust the altitude and throttle as required, so he said little, thinking of Clark in the back of the plane, wanting badly to know how he was, but knowing it would make no difference to what they had to do now. The black cloud before them got larger and darker, and Hogan breathed shallowly through his mouth, knowing Sweet Phoenix had now locked on to its course and could not deviate if the bombing was to be successful. "Box barrage flak," he observed in a whisper.

"Yep," Stuckey said, equally worried about the cloud before them. Stuckey watched as the mass got thicker and darker, the Germans' way of trying to stop the bombers once they had locked in on to their target and couldn't stray from their flight path. Massive amounts of shells exploding in the middle of what they had determined to be the middle of the route that the Allied planes had to take in order to meet their objective was an effective, and often deadly, way of protecting the installations below. Evasive action now was impossible.

"There's an eight-second delay between rounds," Hogan said. We're locked in but we can slow down if we need to—Bailey, how far are we off the drop site?"

"At current speed, eight minutes, Colonel."

Hogan straightened in his seat and calculated. "We need to get through there; let's do it."

"Right, Papa," Bailey answered determinedly.

Headings and directions flew back and forth as Cheeks, Bailey and Paynter sorted out the movements of Sweet Phoenix to give her the best chance to fly through the flak cloud with minimal damage. Hogan accepted all bearings and followed through automatically, while his mind played out all the possible scenarios ahead of them—making it through, getting the target, and making it back to England safely; making it through, getting the target, and not making it back to England; not making it through the flak at all. He put the last two possibilities out of his mind and focused on the work ahead, still hearing Clark's weak voice echoing in his ears.

Another explosion and the plane rocked, her nose dipping as the men were jerked around the inside of the bomber. "Flak hit—on the rudder!"

"Losing bearing—correct heading four-two degrees!"

Hogan cursed and fought against the pull of the plane's mighty engines to bring her back in line. Failing, his hands cold and muscles aching from the strain, he suddenly felt Stuckey's hands on top of his, and the two of them pulled with all their strength on the control column to right the Fortress as she continued hurtling toward the target area. As the B-17 righted and she came back on course, another burst, and suddenly a blast of cold air—fragments of the windshield and flak went flying through the cockpit; a shell had punched a softball-sized hole in the Plexiglas.

Hogan and Stuckey instinctively turned their faces away, still pulling hard on the controls. "We've got her right, now!" Hogan shouted over the deafening noises in the plane. "Get yourself back in place!"

Stuckey nodded and turned back to his seat, while Cheeks continued his work from the nose and Hogan flexed his hands on the throttle. The cold from the hole in the Plexiglas was making his eyes tear, but he didn't waste time wiping them. Flak continued to unsettle the Fortress, and he needed all the strength of both hands to keep the plane on course.

After what seemed like hours, Hogan finally heard the call. "Bombs away!"

Smooch sounded triumphant. Sweet Phoenix rose up as though an invisible hand was lifting her up, now that the three tons of explosives had dropped out of her belly and to the earth below. Hogan kept his eyes straight ahead, his fingers gripping the throttle as the bombardier handed back control of the aircraft to the pilot, and banking the plane back toward England. If nothing else, Hogan thought, they had achieved their target, and he was now certain they had gotten the right place. However far the Germans had gotten in nuclear research when they trumpeted their progress in front of Hogan, they weren't doing so well now. And that was something he could only be thankful for.

"On target, Colonel, right on target," reported Paynter.

"Nice work, Smooch," Hogan praised the man. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

But that was easier said than done.


	12. Heading Home

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to L J Groundwater. Thanks.

* * *

Flak continued to bombard the Group as the planes turned and headed back toward England. The noise assaulted their ears and the smoke from the shells exploding close by stung their eyes as it snaked in through the hole in the windshield. Hogan remained tense, knowing that dropping their eggs was only half the battle; the rest was getting back home.

But now he could break away from his flight path without jeopardizing the mission, and he did so quickly as the anti-aircraft guns below seemed to intensify their fire, their aim was getting more and more accurate. A Fortress nearby jerked off its course and lurched dangerously close to Sweet Phoenix. Hogan pulled up and away from the damaged craft, burning the words on the nose, Luck of the Draw, into his memory. _Hang on, boys, we're heading home._ But the flak continued to target them, and soon the planes were scattering to avoid being hit by shells or each other.

"Olander, tell Luck of the Draw to fall in behind us, and we'll get Foley in The Katzenjammer Kids to escort. Don't let her get isolated," Hogan ordered solemnly.

"Right, Colonel," the radio operator answered, getting straight to work.

Hogan couldn't wait any longer. "Mattingly, how's Clark?"

Again Sweet Phoenix rocked from side to side. "I've given him morphine, Colonel. He's having a smoke."

Hogan nodded grimly. Awake enough to have someone stick a cigarette between his lips; at least that much was good news. But there was still a long way home. "Good work. Keep it under control."

"Flak's clearing, Colonel," Stuckey reported at last.

Hogan nodded but didn't answer. Experience told him that could mean one of two things: that the Germans were letting them go, or that they were preparing for another fighter attack. He prayed fervently that it was the former.

"Colonel! McCartney says Luck of the Draw is losing power in one engine and can't keep up to formation!" Olander called out.

"Tell him to feather it and make sure they maintain an escort. We can't slow down too much or we'll all be sitting ducks."

"Yes, sir."

"Jerries, six o'clock," Flanders reported suddenly.

"Damn," Hogan said under his breath. "I thought that was coming."

"Colonel, we've got a mess of Krauts coming up on our tail—Arkansas Traveler says it's at least two dozen and they haven't stopped counting yet!" Olander reported.

"They're in Purple Heart Corner, Colonel," Stuckey reminded Hogan. That was the name given to the lowest, furthest back spot in the formation—the one most vulnerable to enemy attack. "If the goons are out there, they'll see 'em."

"How are we holding up?" Hogan asked.

"Pretty good so far, Colonel. A few more holes than I'd like to see through, but we're in one piece," Paynter answered.

"What about the rest of the Group?"

"Everyone's still here, sir, but a few of them are starting to fall behind."

"We can't afford to lose airspeed; have the tag-alongs drop altitude to pick up speed."

"Yes, sir."

"Here they come!" called Wade. "Kraut fighters moving in fast from nine o'clock!"

Hogan felt sweat starting to bead on his forehead despite the bitter cold in the cockpit. The German planes had moved in fast, and the shouting on the interphone and the noises around them were suddenly reaching a crescendo. The inside of Sweet Phoenix was filling again with the strong scent of burnt cordite as her guns were fired almost non-stop. Fuel, oil, and sweat joined in to create a unique aroma that would for these men always be connected with fear and adrenalin and prayers.

Then a symphony of ripping metal played in Hogan's headsets, and the scream that accompanied it made him gasp and squeeze his eyes shut.

"Direct hit on the tail!" came the call. "Flanders is hit! He's hit!"

"Huge hole at the turret, Colonel! Tail gun is useless!"

"Losing rudder control!"

"Hold on, guys, pulling her back in line!" Hogan called. His feet pressed down hard on the pedal for the rudders. The plane fought him all the way, but in the end he managed to keep the Flying Fortress in formation. "How's Flanders?"

"He's bad, Colonel—bad!" called back Olander. "Bleeding from the head and shoulder—he's unconscious!"

"Get a dressing on it! There's plenty in the kit!"

"On it, sir!"

Hogan shook his head, distressed, as he listened to the non-stop noise of the planes and the guns, and the warnings being shouted from one man to the other. He and the crew watched in horror as two fighters finally cornered Rebel Yell, a straggler that was smoking heavily from two engines, and attacked relentlessly until one wing seemed to burst into flames and explode off the plane, showering the sky and other bombers nearby with oil, fuel and shrapnel. Hogan found himself once again counting parachutes… parachutes… where were they? And as he saw the cockpit window blow out and flames shoot from the flank of the plane, Hogan realized there would be no parachutes and simply watched, almost hypnotized, as Rebel Yell started to pirouette towards the earth in a twisted, deadly dance. "No…" Hogan breathed, not even aware he had spoken aloud. _No, no, no…._

His mourning for the lost plane was short-lived, however, as the guns that were firing on the ill-fated B-17 were now turning toward Sweet Phoenix. As the fighters came up behind them, Hogan grimaced noisily, knowing the tail gun was out of commission. He called for Wade's attention, and the young ball turret gunner shouted as he fired nonstop rounds on the attacking Focke-Wulfs. Mattingly was back on his waist flank gun, and Paynter had taken over for Clark.

More bone-jarring jerks from the bomber as cannon fire blew holes in the flank, in the wings, in the tail. One shout from Wade in the ball turret announced that the Germans had come a little too close for comfort, and Hogan watched as a 109 came roaring up directly in front of them, its undercarriage wide open. A tiny smile curled the edge of his lips as the boys in the nose of Sweet Phoenix fired at the fighter as it passed, leaving a strip of holes straight up its belly.

But that fighter was only one of many, and soon another attack from the right hit home. "Number four engine on fire!" Mattingly called urgently.

"This is trouble, Colonel," Stuckey said. "She's belching grey smoke."

"Oil," Hogan replied. He went straight to work. "Feather the engine. Fuel shut-off valve closed."

"Booster pump off," Stuckey said.

"Increase airspeed; we have to try to blow the fire out," Hogan ordered. "Cowl flaps open."

"Ignition on engine number four: off."

"Keep up that right wing," Hogan said. "We want to keep her trim. Dropping altitude."

The tension in the cockpit was almost as thick as the smell of fuel, with little to dissipate it until Mattingly finally spoke up a little while later. "She's taking to it, Colonel," he reported. "Looking good from here."

Hogan nodded. "Good. Cowl flaps closed and locked." And as the German fighters finally seemed to give up the fight, Hogan sat back and took in and let out a long, deep breath. "Let's go home."

* * *

At ten thousand feet the pain began. At first it was a tingling that took Hogan by surprise, but as time passed and they were still in the air, the pain from the slow thawing of his feet became immense, driving him to distraction. Still, Hogan said nothing, knowing there were others in the Fortress suffering life-threatening injuries that were in more need of pain relief. Desperate to carry on, he tore off his helmet and nearly sent it flying across the cockpit, and when his breathing became louder and labored, and as sweat broke out on his forehead and he gripped the throttle so hard he thought it would break, his co-pilot caved in and spoke up.

"Sir, there's still morphine in the kit," Stuckey urged quietly.

Hogan pursed his lips tightly and shook his head, trying to think clearly enough to answer. He ran his left hand through his hair, stopping once to pull it hard as an incredible twist of pain demanded a counter action. "The others need it… Worse off…" Hogan hissed through his teeth. He found he couldn't finish as the burning sensation in his feet devoured him. He clamped his hands around the steering column again, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You can't suffer like this, sir," Stuckey said.

Hogan paid no attention when Stuckey left his station, and didn't know how much time had passed when the Captain came back to his seat on Hogan's right and prepared to administer a shot. He submitted, barely aware, when Stuckey drew back the collar of his flight suit clear to his shoulder and found a muscle in which to insert the needle. But when the syringe hit home, Hogan was briefly roused. "No…" he managed. "You can't… fly all the way… home." He bit his lip and tasted blood, and, though he had resisted the drug, he now begged God for the morphine to take hold soon.

"We're not far, sir," Stuckey said. "Help will be waiting for you."

"And… for the others…"

"Yes, Colonel. And the others, sir. You'll all get help. Now sit back and let me fly this baby home."

"I can… help for a little while," Hogan said. But he was exhausted and starting to feel the effects of the morphine, and his head drifted back toward his seat. Stuckey shook his head regretfully and turned his attention to getting Sweet Phoenix safely back to England.


	13. Triumph and Tribulations

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, original characters and storyline belongs to LJ Groundwater.

* * *

Hogan awoke some time later, unable to ignore the still immense pain in his feet. But with the edge taken off, he was now determined to help finish the mission himself. He looked right to see Stuckey gripping the control column resolutely, his eyelids drooping, his exhaustion clearly showing on his face.

"I'll take over," Hogan said, feeling like his words had come out slurred.

Stuckey turned to Hogan in surprise. "Sir," he said, his eyes opening wide. He looked back out through the damaged Plexiglas. "I'm fine, sir. I can do it."

"So can I," Hogan replied. "That's an order, Captain."

"Yes, sir," Stuckey finally acquiesced.

"How far are we from home?" Hogan asked.

"Almost at the approach."

Hogan nodded, grimacing at the throbbing, and wished it was much sooner. "How are the others?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Flanders is pretty bad off, sir. But Clark's bleeding is under control."

Hogan nodded. "Hang on fellas," he said, though he knew the crew couldn't hear him. "Hang on… we're nearly there." Hogan concentrated on the instrument panel, self-preservation making him block out all other sounds, sights, sensations. "Heading ninety degrees," he said at last. He called the tower for landing clearance and received a hearty welcome in reply. He didn't smile at the response, now solely focused on getting the plane down before he passed out from having to use his feet on the rudder and brakes. Shock waves coursed through him; he ignored them and flicked a switch. "Landing gear down." He looked to his left. "Down left."

Stuckey looked out his window. "Down right," he reported. From behind them, the engineer signaled that the tail wheel was also down, and the trailing antenna was in. "Brakes okay," Stuckey reported.

"Hydraulic pressure seven-hundred fifty. RPMs twenty-one hundred." A pause. "One-third flaps." Stuckey listened to Hogan's feeble but single-minded reporting and nodded, still worried. Hogan continued monitoring the Fortress, then applied more pressure on the foot-controlled brakes. Terrible fire shot through him. He gripped the control column so hard the muscles in his hands rippled; fantastic pain was reaching straight up through his body. But he kept going. "Air speed one-fifty. Vertical speed five hundred feet per minute," he said almost breathlessly. Stuckey watched as sweat poured down Hogan's face.

Sweet Phoenix broke through the clouds. "Making final approach. Air speed one-thirty." Hogan glanced at Stuckey. "Tell Paynter to send up the flares; we'll need a medical team standing by."

"Yes, sir." Stuckey was preparing to obey the order when the Colonel suddenly hissed sharply. Hogan slapped his forehead with his open palm and squeezed his eyes shut to counteract the pain, taking short, grunting breaths. "Sir. Let me bring her in," Stuckey urged.

But for Hogan, the only way to conquer the pain now was to keep working. "No. It's fine," he said with difficulty, shaking himself back to work and forcing his quivering hand back to the controls.

Hogan watched as the red flare that would give them priority for landing and ensure that aid was waiting for them arced high into the sky. Then his eyes were riveted to the flares that lit the runway, showing the men that they were home at last. Fighting off unconsciousness, he turned his wavering attention to the panel of instruments before him. "Banking for final approach. Full flaps. RPMs one-twenty… one-fifteen… one-ten. Freezer on. Hydraulic pressure okay." Hogan spoke steadily and calmly. Stuckey watched with both admiration and apprehension.

The Flying Fortress thumped onto the runway, made a slight bounce off, and then rolled smoothly down the tarmac. Hogan continued taxi-ing and running through the checklist. "Turbos off. Booster… pumps off. Wing… flaps… up." He continued to apply pressure to the brakes, his feet screaming out burning torment to every muscle in his body as they bore down on the pedals. He broke out in a fresh bout of cold sweat. But he kept going. "Tail wheel unlocked."

Stuckey noticed Hogan's voice becoming more and more strained as the plane rolled to a stop. "Generators off," Stuckey reported. "Revving engines to one thousand. Cutting inboard engines."

Hogan made a final call from the cockpit. "All in tower, this is seven-one-three Sweet Phoenix. Mission complete."

When the B-17's engines stopped turning over, Hogan tried to continue. He flicked a switch. "Inverters off." Another switch. A hard swallow. "Batteries off." A third flick with a shuddering breath. "Main lines…"

It finally overwhelmed him. Hogan lowered his head to the control column, gripping it tightly, and he listened, mentally and physically unable to move, as the medical team came aboard.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hogan was carried to the airbase infirmary, where, still conscious, he was propped up in a large chair while his socks and flying boots were quickly and carefully cut from his feet. The doctor, Paul Lagos, checked that a shot of pain relief had already been administered, then knelt in front of Hogan with a tub of warm water on the floor. "Ready, Mitch?" Lagos asked. The medic who stood nearby nodded grimly and placed his hands on Hogan's shoulders. Lagos looked at Hogan, who was still writhing incessantly with the pain. "Okay. Colonel Hogan, we've got to start now. We can't afford to wait."

There was no opportunity to protest. "Ah—_Ahh!_" Hogan screamed, as Lagos submerged Hogan's already pulsing feet into the water. Pain seared through him, and his body arced in agony. Lagos grimaced, but he only held Hogan's legs more firmly as Mitch applied steady pressure to the Colonel's shoulders to contain his violent convulsions. "Stop!" Hogan begged, his body jerking awkwardly, his breathing fast and shallow. His strength in suffering was enormous, but the hands remained unyielding on his legs and shoulders. "_**P-please… s-s-stop!**_" One more strong jolt to try and escape the hurt as tears he did not notice rolled freely down Hogan's face, mixing with the sweat streaming down from his temples. No relief; just indescribable, excruciating pain. The shaking, the desperate resistance continued as Hogan pleaded for the torture to end. Eventually, as the narcotics continued to numb him, the twisting and splashing began to weaken. Finally, beaten and exhausted, he leaned back against the headrest, still trembling and close to weeping. "_Ohhhh_," he moaned hopelessly.

"Just one minute more, Colonel; the morphine is taking hold now," Lagos said gently but not letting go. "Steady now, just go with it, sir. Let it take over."

Lagos persisted as Hogan's struggling continued to diminish, and within another minute, the Colonel was blessedly unconscious. Lagos let out a loud breath and stood up, then addressed Mitch. "Keep his feet soaking for another thirty minutes. Don't let the water get too cool, but don't let it go a single degree over one hundred and five. Got it?"

Mitch nodded, then moved in to care for Hogan as Lagos grabbed a towel and started wiping his own hands and face.

"Are you sure that's the right thing to do, Lagos?" asked General Butler doubtfully. The General had waited at the airfield to greet Hogan and speak to him as soon as the mission had been completed, and was surprised when instead the Colonel was whisked away to the infirmary. "He seems to be in a lot of pain."

"Believe me, General," Lagos replied, "the latest Allied Aviation medical research shows that we've been going about treating frostbite all wrong. Rubbing snow and ice on the affected areas only continues the damage. Gradual warming will release warm blood into the tissues and _repair_ some of the damage. And even though it seems almost cruel right now, since his thawing nerves are sending very powerful pain messages to his brain," Lagos glanced over at Hogan who, even in oblivion, looked exhausted, "the benefits will far out-weigh the short-term agony. At least that's what we believe, General. So far the results using this treatment have been remarkable in comparison to the standard method."

"Hogan needs to be out of here tonight. See that he's as ready as he can be."

"_Tonight?_" Lagos echoed, shaking his head. "Give the man a break—this isn't an easy thing to—"

"Sorry, Doc, that's the way it has to be, and he'll be the first one to tell you that."

Lagos looked over to the treatment area. Mitch was wiping the sweat and tears from Hogan's face. Lagos shook his head. "I doubt it," he commented. He sighed. "But if you say so, sir, he'll be ready. We're going to need to send some medicine with him, though, and he'll need a larger pair of boots to wear. His feet have swollen and may blister badly, and he can't afford to antagonize them."

"Just see that he's ready to go." Butler looked at Hogan and turned to leave. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back. "Oh, and Lagos." The doctor nodded. "You never saw Hogan. You never attended to him, you've never met him. He was never here."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

"We've got trouble," Newkirk announced as he looked out the barracks door late in the afternoon.

Carter came up behind him and peered out. "What's going on?" he asked.

Newkirk shook his head as a car came to a halt in front of Klink's office. "Burkhalter."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

General Burkhalter hauled himself up the steps of the _Kommandantur_ and into Klink's office. The Colonel was sitting at his desk, chewing on the end of a pencil and wishing for a cup of cocoa—or something stronger—when his superior officer walked in, unannounced.

Hilda was trailing behind him, holding the door. "General Burkhalter to see you, _Herr_ Kommandant," she said, knowing it was too late but feeling the need to make a proper announcement.

Klink sprung up from his desk, dropping his pencil and immediately saluting. "General Burkhalter!" he greeted, almost fawning. "What a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting to see the General today!" He came around the desk. "May I take your coat, sir—perhaps a glass of schnapps or a—"

"_Klink!_" Burkhalter's sharp voice penetrated the room, bringing the Kommandant's rambling to an abrupt halt. "I do not drink schnapps when I am working—and I presume you don't, either!"

Klink raised a hand in front of him, waving it as though to erase the idea from existence. "No, of course not, General. It was just a _suggestion_—a _joke_, if you will."

Burkhalter turned a disdainful face toward the Kommandant. "I do not joke on duty either, Klink."

"No, of course not," Klink agreed, the lilt in his voice quickly fading away.

"I am here to see Colonel Hogan."


	14. Ducking and Weaving

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline and original characters belongs to LJ Groundwater. Thanks.

* * *

In the barracks, Hogan's men were gathered around the coffee pot, listening and growing more and more worried. At Burkhalter's words, Kinch looked at the others. "We'd better get Olsen," he said.

"Right," said Carter, leaving immediately to track down the young Sergeant out in the compound.

"And Wilson," Kinch added.

Newkirk accepted that task and also left.

"What are you planning to do, Kinch?" asked Le Beau.

"I don't know. Let's just hope we don't have to do _anything_."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

_The death screams from the men aboard Rebel Yell echoed in Hogan's ears as he watched the B-17 break apart and explode in mid-air. Sweat was pouring off his brow and his hands were shaking so much the throttle was rocking back and forth. His own men were shouting—some in fear, some in pain—and he could hear them even over his own panting breaths. He could see their faces as he stared at the shattered windscreen of Goldilocks: Bailey, Flanders, Carter, Montgomery, Newkirk, Anderson… He heard curses in both English and German and he could hear gunfire and flak exploding around them. Then he felt a terrible pain in his abdomen and he doubled in on himself, even as he reached out and hit the alarm bell to signal the men to bail out. __**Bail out!**__..._

Hogan awoke with a start, momentarily frantic and breathless. A hand immediately touched his shoulder, guiding him gently back down to the bed he had jerked upright in, and Hogan submitted, disorientated and sore.

After a minute, the touch of a damp cloth on his face brought Hogan's mind into focus again, and he opened his eyes to see a man lightly working the cool towel over his face, neck and arms. Hogan was quietly grateful, but, still very tired, he could say little in thanks. "Have a bit of a bad dream there, did you?" the man said softly as he continued to move the cloth along Hogan's arm. "Don't worry, now; that's all over. You're safe here."

Hogan frowned as he tried to remember the startling images that had jolted him into consciousness. "Everything was mixed up," he mumbled, closing his eyes again. "Everyone was… in the wrong place."

"Dreams are like that sometimes," the man answered. Finishing his work, he tucked Hogan's arms back under the blanket and dropped the cloth back into a bowl of water. "There's someone to see you, sir. Do you think you're up to it?"

Hogan made a sound in his throat that could have been a yes or a no, but he tried to open his eyes and look at anyone waiting for him. Soon a brown dress uniform came into view, and, when his vision cleared a bit more, Hogan realized his visitor was General Butler.

"Hogan. How are you, son?" the General asked, approaching the bed. He nodded toward the attendant to dismiss him.

Hogan didn't know the answer to that question, so he said drowsily, "I'm here, sir."

Butler smiled kindly. "That you are, Hogan," he answered. "And according to the debriefing session, it sounds like you had a successful run, as well."

Hogan paused to build up strength before answering. "Some of my men were hurt, sir." He couldn't even bring himself to talk about the fate of Rebel Yell. How many other planes had met the same fate that day?

Butler nodded knowingly. No matter how successful a raid was militarily, Hogan would always determine its ultimate success or failure based on the safety of his men. Admirable, the General thought, but the one chink in the Colonel's strong armor. "They're being attended to, Hogan. As are you." He chuckled. "I didn't think you'd go quite so far to avoid an interrogation session with me."

Hogan smiled weakly. "You're not that bad, sir." He forced himself to think of the matters at hand. "The target… I think we got it, sir. I think it was the right place."

Butler nodded again. "That's good enough for me, son. I'm sure the recon shots we get will confirm it. We've learned to trust your judgment about most things in the last couple of years—I can't see why this time it would be any different."

"Thank you, sir," Hogan sighed wearily. His eyes closed. He tried to pry them open again, but it was difficult.

"You're tired now," Butler observed; "you've been through a lot, and you need some time to recover before you go back to Germany. We'll get you back to the drop point on time so you're not out of Stalag 13 any longer than you need to be, and we'll contact your men to organize transportation at the drop site so you don't have far to walk."

Butler could see Hogan was trying his best to stay awake, but the young officer was fading quickly. The General moved in a bit closer and said in a low voice, "You did well, Colonel. You should be proud."

"Good men, sir," Hogan explained breathily, as he drifted back to sleep.

Butler shook his head tolerantly, watched Hogan at rest for a moment, then quietly slipped away.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Burkhalter pushed the door to Barracks Two open with such force that it slammed against the sink behind it, startling the Corporal on the nearby bunk who had worked so hard to make it look like he had been relaxing there for more than the last forty-five seconds. The General took two full steps into the hut, only to see the back of Hogan's jacket and cap disappear into his office, followed quickly by Newkirk and Wilson, who shut the door firmly behind them.

"Hogan!" called Burkhalter.

Kinch stepped immediately in front of Hogan's office. "I'm afraid you can't go in there, General," he said, raising a hand to halt the man's advance.

Klink and Schultz had followed Burkhalter meekly into the barracks, and at Kinch's warning, the Kommandant pulled himself up. "General Burkhalter can go wherever he likes at Stalag 13!" he almost bellowed.

The door to Hogan's office opened, and Wilson poked his head out. "What is this?" he asked, clearly annoyed. "What's going on here?"

Klink gestured grandly toward the General. "General Burkhalter wants to see Colonel Hogan!"

Wilson came out of the room and shut the door as Burkhalter leaned forward to try and see behind him. "The room is dark!" Burkhalter exclaimed.

"Of course it is!" Wilson retorted scornfully. "You don't think the Colonel can take _light _at the moment, do you? Why do you think I brought him in there in the first place?" he shook his head, shooting a split-second wary glance toward Kinch before continuing. "He is not to be disturbed until I say so."

Burkhalter turned toward Klink. "Klink, what is this? Your prisoner is ordering me around?"

"Out of the way! Let the General through!"

Burkhalter took another step toward Hogan's door. Schultz squeezed his eyes shut so as not to have to look at what would be happening next. Carter and Le Beau joined Kinch and Wilson in front of it. The room fell silent. "You will move," Burkhalter said irritably, "or the guards will _make_ you move!"

The men shifted uncomfortably. But before they had a chance to decide exactly how to respond, the door to Hogan's office opened again, and Newkirk tried to step out. Hogan's men parted stiffly to let him through, their eyes still on Burkhalter. The Englishman grabbed Wilson and said, "He's got them headaches again, Joe. He needs you real bad."

Bewildered but nonetheless happy to get out of the common room and away from the tension, the medic let Newkirk guide him back toward Hogan's quarters. As he practically shoved Wilson into the dark room, the Corporal turned back to the Germans and waved his chin toward Burkhalter. "It's _him_," he said accusingly. "Just the _thought_ of him reduces the Colonel to a quivering bowl of jelly." He shook his head scoldingly as the General seemed to stand taller at the statement. "The Colonel can't see anyone, sir, honest. He's just too bad off; it's that Delayed Relapse Syndrome again."

"Delayed _what_?" Burkhalter asked, flabbergasted.

Klink stepped in, trying to sound knowledgeable. "Oh—General Burkhalter—the medic Wilson explained a condition that Colonel Hogan has developed in response to the journey you took him on the other day. You see, apparently Hogan was so traumatized that he—"

"_Klink!_" Burkhalter roared.

Wilson came back to the door. "Okay, you can come in if you have to," he said. "But I'm _warning_ you, General: leave the lights _off_, or Colonel Hogan could start having convulsions."

"_Convulsions?—_"

"Please, General. Keep your voice down." Wilson straightened as Hogan's men made way for Burkhalter to pass. "This is going to be stressful enough for Colonel Hogan without you making things worse by shouting in his ear."

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Kinch thought he would burst out laughing. He'd have to remember to tease Wilson about how authoritative he could be toward the Nazis—once there weren't any Germans around to overhear them.

Burkhalter stood in the doorway to Hogan's office and looked intently toward the beds. He could see Newkirk sitting solicitously at the end of the lower bunk. But as for the American, all he could see was a lump under a pile of blankets. "Hogan!" he called, ignoring Wilson's directive.

A long, plaintive moan from the bed.

"_Please_, sir," pleaded Newkirk.

"Hogan, you are still expected to record this broadcast for me," the General persisted. "I feel I have been very generous in giving you time to study what I have written for—I mean, to come up with a way to tell the Allies how powerful the Third Reich is. But the time has come, Hogan, and I need you to act, whether you are ready or not."

_Oh, he's __**acting**__, all right,_ Kinch thought, every nerve in his body on alert.

Another muffled sound from under the blankets.

"What did you say, Hogan?" Burkhalter asked, coming further into the room.

Newkirk spoke immediately, stopping Burkhalter in his step. "Tomorrow, General," he said. "The Colonel says to come back tomorrow afternoon and he'll have something to say."

Burkhalter straightened, and, satisfied, he nodded curtly and walked out of Hogan's office. Hogan's men did their best to hide their overwhelming relief. "That is acceptable, Klink. Be certain Hogan is in your office at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. And make sure he is ready to talk!" He moved to the door, which Klink immediately opened for him. "And make sure you do not catch whatever this _condition_ is that Colonel Hogan has—I would hate to think that _you_ would be hiding from me when I come to Stalag 13." He paused, as though considering. "Perhaps it is _I_ who should be hiding from _you_."

Burkhalter walked proudly out of the hut. Klink was about to follow when he nearly walked straight into Schultz, who was standing, eyes still tightly shut, near the door. "Schultz, you _dummkopf_!" he blurted angrily. Schultz reluctantly opened one eye, realized the General was gone and no one had been shot, and followed his superior officer out the door with only a look of relief to show for his trouble.

Carter sank onto his bunk, letting out a long breath. Le Beau moved toward the stove to get everyone a calming drink, and Kinch knocked on the door to Hogan's office. "It's safe now," he said.

Newkirk, Wilson and Olsen emerged.

"Well, that's got him off our back till the gov'nor returns, anyway," Newkirk declared. "Did you see how he puffed up when I told 'im the Colonel's afraid to see him? Like a ruddy peacock, he was. I'd like to ruffle _his_ bleedin' feathers."

"Why did you tell Burkhalter to come back tomorrow?" Carter asked.

Newkirk shrugged, trying not to think of the horrid possibility that they had already lost their commanding officer in the skies over Germany today. "Because if Colonel Hogan doesn't come back as planned tonight… it will all be over tomorrow anyway."


	15. The Ties That Bind

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text and original characters belongs to me...

* * *

Hogan opened his eyes as he sensed someone approaching his bed. "Thought you'd sneak up on me, eh?" he said in a whisper, looking up to see his navigator hovering over him.

"How are you, Papa?" Bailey asked, his eyes searching the Colonel's face worriedly.

"I'd be fine if someone would just cut me off at the knees," Hogan quipped with a weak smile. He shrugged. "I'm… pretty tired, after all the excitement."

"I noticed. I've been here twice tonight but you were dead to the world." Bailey offered a small smile in return when Hogan shifted uncomfortably at the revelation. "You'd just done a full day's flying even before you had to go through this," the Lieutenant said. "You'd have been asleep with or without the drugs eventually."

Hogan nodded mutely. He looked vaguely around him, saw the partitions, heard the noises from outside them but was unable to see any other patients. He looked at Bailey questioningly. "Why am I…?"

"Cut off from everyone else? Because you're not here. Right?" Bailey said with a grin.

"Oh, yeah, that's right," Hogan replied, closing his eyes tiredly. "I don't exist." A low groan as a bit of pain niggled its way through the barrier of drugs he had been given.

"You should stay for further treatment, Papa," Bailey said quietly. "Frostbite is never kind."

"Damned electric shoes. Never got better, did they?" Hogan replied, still floating slightly on the morphine, grateful for its power to dull his reality. "That's the second time I've frozen my feet on a raid. Next time I'll bring extra batteries." He tried to smile, then winced as a throb squeezed his feet tightly. "When am I being flown back?"

"In a couple of hours. Really, Colonel, how are you going to do this?"

"I'll manage," Hogan said gamely. Hogan suddenly recalled that he had already woken once in the infirmary, but hadn't noticed anything around him. Then his conversation with Butler came wafting back slowly. "General Butler's making sure there's transportation waiting for me when I get dropped in. I don't think I'd be able to walk back to camp, that's for sure."

"How will you explain your feet?"

"You leave that to me; explanations are our specialty, remember?"

Bailey nodded, and offered a lopsided smile. "Yeah, I remember. You pull off some of the craziest stunts…"

Hogan smiled briefly, then grew serious. "How are Flanders and Clark?"

Bailey shrugged, trying not to commit to anything. "They're both here, in other areas."

"And that means?" Hogan asked, not missing the evasion tactics.

"It means they're both being seen to. Flanders hasn't regained consciousness yet. The doctor says he's not very well at the moment," Bailey admitted reluctantly.

"Damn," Hogan burst in a soft voice. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. _He made it all the way home from Germany once. God, please, just one more time…._ "And Clark?" he asked in a whisper.

Bailey nodded. "He's better. He has a great chance now because Mattingly put so much pressure on the bleeding when we were still in the air."

"What about the others?"

"All okay, Papa. Honest," Bailey added.

Hogan grew quiet. Bailey recognized the distress that had crept onto the Colonel's face as the Lieutenant reported on the condition of Clark and Flanders, and knew that only time or a sudden report of good news about the pair would bring back some of the light that had dimmed in his eyes. He watched as Hogan coped with and then dismissed his own obvious discomfort, seeming almost to forget that Bailey was there. Finally, Bailey said, "The interrogation team was really happy with everything, and pretty amazed at the landing you pulled off."

Hogan let his mind flick back to the cockpit, but only for a second as memories of the pain then seemed to increase the throbbing in his feet now. He shifted in the bed, biting his lip as sore muscles protested the move. "The plane stayed on the runway. I don't know what else could be said about it," he said ruefully.

"Stuckey made it sound like it wouldn't have without you at the stick," Bailey said with a shrug.

Hogan breathed in and out through his teeth. "Too stubborn… to let the damned thing out of my control."

Bailey frowned. "You need the doctor, Papa. I'll go get him and then leave you alone to rest before you go back, okay?"

Hogan wanted to savor the few minutes he would have with Bailey before being sent back to Stalag 13. But concentrating was difficult at the moment, and so he just nodded and said, "You make sure you write to me there, okay? I want to know what's going on here. Use the code." Bailey nodded, and Hogan forced a small smile. "And _don't_ address the letters to Papa Bear."

Bailey took Hogan's hand in a firm grip, and without words the two of them reaffirmed their bond and promised their strong friendship would continue no matter what the distance between them. "I won't," Bailey said in a whisper. He let Hogan's hand rest back on the blanket. "Be safe, Papa," he implored quietly.

Hogan nodded slowly. "Don't worry, Baby Bear," he replied softly. "I didn't come this far not to make it back at the end of the war. You just have a nice, warm, friendly Mama Bear waiting for me to wine and dine her when I get here."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

"What's the message from London, Kinch?" Carter asked as the radio man came back up into the barracks.

Kinch shut the entrance to the tunnel before turning to the others. "Everything's on schedule. Colonel Hogan should be at area A-sixteen at oh-two hundred as planned."

"That's great!" Le Beau burst from the table.

"Fantastic," Newkirk added, breaking into a big smile. "So did they get the research laboratory, then?"

"Looks like it," Kinch answered. The others' excitement was abruptly dampened when he continued. "But there's one other thing."

"I don't like it already," Le Beau announced, noting the small frown on the Sergeant's face.

"What is it, Kinch?" Carter asked.

"They said they want us to have a car waiting to get the Colonel back to camp."

"_So what?_" Newkirk said, still jubilant that everything seemed to have gone so well and that they would be getting their commanding officer back in a matter of hours. "He's probably knackered after flying all bloomin' day! Been in a ruddy plane for hours, wouldn't have gotten much sleep the night before—who wouldn't get a lift back to camp if he could manage it?" He nodded once, as though confirming the idea to himself. "I should have thought of it myself. I only wish I had a proper chauffeur's uniform and a right handsome limousine to bring him back in."

Kinch shook his head to clear his mood. "You must be right, Newkirk," he said. "I guess I'm just not used to London pampering us."

"Well, gee, this time the Colonel went above and beyond the call," Carter put in. "I mean, they'd _want_ to treat him well after everything that's happened this time around."

"Of course!" Le Beau agreed heartily. "You are just too nervous, Kinch. Let London do something _good_ for us for a change, _non_?"

"You're right, Louis." Kinch smiled but Le Beau could tell he was not convinced. "You know that meal you're gonna make the Colonel—maybe Newkirk could steal some of Klink's wine and caviar to use as an appetizer."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hogan frowned when he saw the white bandage wrapped around Stuckey's forehead. "I didn't hear about _you_," he said, concerned.

Stuckey came further into the partitioned-off area, where Hogan had been lying in a state of half-alertness for the last fifteen minutes, trying to forget about his frostbitten feet, which were propped up at the end of his bed, and which would not be so well treated in another couple of hours. "Well, I didn't notice it at first, either," the Captain said. "But once we got down I was told I had blood running down the side of my face. Must have taken some debris when the windshield shattered."

"You did good today," Hogan praised the man. "There were a couple of times that I couldn't handle her on my own. You really came through."

Stuckey smiled shyly. "You _could_ just say I was saving my own bacon."

"I _could_, but I won't." Hogan shook his head carefully. "And you helped _me_ a lot, too. Thanks."

"I would've flown Sweet Phoenix all the way home, Colonel; I really would have!" Stuckey declared.

Hogan smiled tolerantly. "I know you would have," he answered. "But you're not supposed to have to. And you were practically asleep at the throttle."

"I was okay."

"Sure," Hogan agreed, though the Captain knew from Hogan's tone of voice that the Colonel didn't remotely concur.

Stuckey suddenly ducked his head and his voice dropped. "Um, Colonel, I just want to say…" He paused, uncertain. Hogan furrowed his brow but said nothing, waiting for the young Captain to prepare himself to speak his mind. "Well, I just want to say thank you. Not just for today—I mean, today was the greatest ever day of my flying career, sir—but I don't mean for that. I mean for what you're doing in Germany now, staying at Stalag 13 and running that operation to get flyers out of the country and away from the Krauts."

Hogan nodded silently, sensing that the man wasn't finished.

"I never got to talk to you personally when I went through Germany," Stuckey continued. "There were a whole bunch of us downed the night I went, and you had your men scattered all over the place. I met a little fella—I think he was French—and an English guy, and all they said to us was that Papa Bear didn't like people roaming through the woods where the big bad Krauts could swallow them up, and that he—you—would get us all out safely. When we got to camp, you made a joke about 'sour Krauts' and made it sound like getting out via the Underground system was the most natural thing in the world. And suddenly I wasn't scared any more.

"It was the biggest relief I think I've ever felt in my life. I wanted to tell you so badly how much your whole approach meant to me, but I never got the chance. And you were exactly the same onboard Sweet Phoenix. No matter how out of control things got—Krauts everywhere, men wounded, engine on fire—you were cool and collected, and suddenly I felt like everything was going to be okay." Stuckey paused to take a breath, as though to recover from his own soul-baring. "I didn't get to say thank you back then, Colonel Hogan. But I want to make sure I say it now." He straightened, bringing himself to attention beside the bed. "Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything."

Hogan lay quietly, touched by the young officer's tribute, grateful for his testimony about how Hogan's personal style—and the operation itself—made a real and vital difference to men's lives. He could have kicked himself when Stuckey mentioned the "sour Krauts" pun; Hogan often used that line to put new men at ease, and had started to wonder about how old it was getting. Now, he knew that no matter how tired it sounded to him, to men who had just dropped out of the sky into an unforgiving enemy terrain, it was something to cling to, and so Hogan from now on would look on that particular joke with a little more respect.

"You're welcome," the Colonel said softly. _And I'll keep doing it as long as I have to, until we're caught by the Nazis… or until we're all home._

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Later that night, after a longer talk with Butler and a short session from his bed with the interrogators about the mission over Bueul, Hogan found himself getting medical instructions from Doctor Lagos before getting bundled up for his flight back to Germany.

"You'll need to keep your feet elevated, Colonel. That will help reduce the swelling and ease the aching you're probably experiencing." Hogan nodded stiffly. "You'll probably notice the throbbing pain increases in a couple of days; unfortunately that's normal. The darkened skin on your feet will disappear over time, as the skin underneath grows to take over. Keep the dressings on, and keep them sterile; they'll cushion your feet against pain. And you may find yourself more sensitive to the cold for some time. I'm sending some pain medication back with you, with instructions for the camp medic. See that you take it when you need it. Watch for blistering—clear is good—and above all, take it easy on yourself: this is no paper cut, and you'll be in considerable pain for a couple of weeks."

Lagos sighed. "I don't like sending you back like this, Colonel Hogan. You need to be under a doctor's care. I have a feeling you'll forget everything I've said once you're back in Germany."

Hogan grimaced. "Not for a couple of weeks, I won't," he said, already cringing at the idea of having to walk on his healing feet to keep the Germans at bay and unsuspicious.

Lagos rolled up Hogan's sleeve. "Here," he said rubbing a spot on Hogan's arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. He plunged a needle into the prepared muscle. "This will ease the pain for awhile, and it may even make you sleep." Hogan gave a start. "Don't worry. You'll be awake by the time they drop you over Germany. Sleep-jumping is against the rules."


	16. Back to Abnormal

No ownership of the Hogan's Heroes characters is implied or inferred. Copyright belongs to others and no infringement is intended. Copyright text, storyline, and original characters belongs to L. J. Groundwater. Thanks.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

"There it is; there is the plane!" Le Beau shouted in a whisper, the first to see the single aircraft flying low over the designated area.

"Carter, give them the signal!" Newkirk urged, and the American flashed light from the huge flashlight: three long; then one long, one short, one long: a simple "O-K" in Morse Code. Then he did it once more for good measure, and they waited.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

The pilot of Hogan's plane pointed out the clear signal from the ground below, indicating that the Colonel's men were in place and ready to accept him back into their fold. Hogan watched as the lights flashed in a pre-agreed-to pattern, and felt strangely out-of-body at that moment, realizing that on any other given night, he would be down there giving the signal, instead of watching it from the air. It was a strange and almost disquieting experience.

"Bombs away, sir!" called the pilot over the noise of the engine.

Hogan smiled and gave the man a thumbs-up, then double-checked his harness and his pack, and stepped out into the sky.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

The foursome watched breathlessly as the plane flashed its own signal and someone jumped out of the craft and began plunging through the sky.

"He's gonna land just south of the target area," Kinch observed. "Let's get moving. The Colonel will never forgive us if we're late to his homecoming."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

All traces of tiredness deserted Hogan as he floated to the earth below in the middle of the cold German night. The plane had come down low, but there was still a fair bit of distance between him and the ground, and he had to try to maneuver toward a clear spot so he didn't end up dangling from a tree for several hours, only to be found by a patrol. _Imagine explaining __**that**__ one!_ Hogan thought ironically.

He twisted and turned, hoping to keep his parachute away from the trees he could see moving in a lot faster than he remembered them ever flying up at him before. Or maybe it was just that he hadn't done a jump in so long… Try as he might, he could barely remember the desperate bail out from Goldilocks, though that was something he considered a blessing, not a curse.

As the ground came hurtling toward him, Hogan maneuvered his body so he would land properly. He moved his body to form an arc, then cried out in pain as the balls of his feet made contact with the ground. Biting his lip, Hogan immediately continued standard landing procedures by falling in the direction of the drift as his legs gave way, then laying his calf and thigh muscles on the ground, then his buttocks, and then his pushup muscle. Keeping his neck muscles tense and his chin on his chest were doing nothing to help a growing headache, but he knew a well-executed landing was imperative to the well-being of the jumper, and so he persisted. All at once it was over, and Hogan let his muscles relax, lying still on his back and gasping for breath as the silk billowed down gracefully around him.

Hogan allowed himself to think of nothing for a few seconds, but then practical thoughts intruded. _The boys will be here soon_, he reminded himself. _Better get this 'chute out of sight._ He rolled over and pulled himself up to his knees, undoing his harness and gathering the yards of silk in as quickly as he could. He looked around quickly for a place to store it, then unthinkingly started to rise.

One move toward standing up and Hogan's legs buckled under him to stop the nauseating pain that accompanied the action. He avoided landing on his face by dropping the parachute and bracing his hands against the hard ground. He kept his sounds of suffering to whimpers, cursing the failed electric shoes in his mind while he breathed himself back to a more bearable level of discomfort. _Well, Hogan, the boys might just have to help you with the more mundane parts of the job._

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Carter parked the car off the road where it could remain partly hidden in the shadow of the trees. Then Hogan's men jumped out of the vehicle and tried to comb the area where they had seen the parachute come down.

"He'll already have the parachute hidden," Newkirk predicted. "He's a quick one, the gov'nor… so we'll have to practically bump into him to find him."

But the foursome was surprised when they found a plume of white bunched carelessly on the ground, and a darkly-clad figure on hands and knees beside it. There was only one person it could be.

"_Colonel_,_"_ called Le Beau softly.

Hogan looked up and tried to take a step toward the Frenchman. The pain was tremendous; he instantly crumpled back to his hands and knees. Within seconds his men were at his side. Hogan shook his head. "Frostbite," he gasped in explanation.

Immediately understanding, Kinch and Newkirk each slung one of Hogan's arms over their shoulders and lifted him, then gripped him under each thigh so he was sitting between them suspended above the ground. They ran with Hogan to the waiting car, where they gently let him down. He tumbled into the front seat and lay his head back, sweating profusely, then vaguely waved a hand toward them, to indicate that he was well enough to leave alone.

Carter, meanwhile, was retrieving the parachute, while Le Beau took possession of the pack that Hogan had carried with him. The Corporal threw the pack into the back seat, then they all piled into the car and took off. When they had driven as far as they dared, Carter pulled over and turned to the others. "That's it; we can't take it any closer."

Kinch leaned forward from the back seat and spoke low in Hogan's ear. "We've got to get out now, sir. Newkirk and I will carry you to the tunnel entrance."

Hogan wanted to protest but knew his body wouldn't handle the long trek, so he just nodded, pulled himself forward in the seat, and opened the door. "Let's go. This car is just an invitation for all the wrong kind of attention."

Kinch came around and helped pull Hogan out of the vehicle, only then noticing that the boots the Colonel was wearing were quite obviously too big to be his own. _Couldn't get your feet in your own boots_, he thought. _How bad are you suffering, Colonel?_ He heard Hogan draw in a tight breath and turned to him, only to see the Colonel blanch and start to sink against the car until Newkirk got to his other side, when the Corporal and the Sergeant again drew Hogan up to carry him to the tree stump that hid the tunnel.

Hogan told the pair to put him down. "I'll make the ladder all right," he said. "Thanks for the lift."

Kinch nodded, but, exchanging a glance to be sure Newkirk was supporting the Colonel, he dropped down into the tunnel first to wait for Hogan at the bottom. "You next, sir," Newkirk prompted softly.

Hogan pulled away from Newkirk and stepped onto the ladder leading to the tunnel system under Stalag 13. He stifled a groan trying to escape his lips, gripping the rungs until his knuckles were white. Putting that much pressure on his raw feet caused pain so severe it took his breath away. He felt his knees weaken.

"Sir?" Newkirk asked, worried.

Hogan just nodded, ignoring the perspiration that had already beaded on his forehead and was snaking down the side of his face. "It's fine," he said with difficulty. And with gritted teeth Hogan made it the rest of the way down. As he stepped off the last rung, he folded onto the floor of the tunnel and stayed there, breathing heavily, strangely glad to be "home" with his men, but already wondering how to explain this to Klink when morning came and he had to crawl out of the barracks for roll call.

Because of London's enigmatic order to have transportation waiting, Hogan's men had gone a step further and had the camp medic waiting at Barracks Two. When they helped Hogan get up the ladder and into the common room, Sergeant Joe Wilson was there.

"It's frostbite, Joe," Kinch explained, as a very white and heavily perspiring Hogan was guided into his quarters. Hogan felt rather than saw someone help him off with his jacket, then he lay back and allowed someone to lift his legs onto the bottom bunk. The pain relief he had been given back in England had worn off, and his feet were throbbing with a sickening intensity. For once, Hogan felt more than ready for another dose of medication.

Wilson moved right in. "Colonel, I need to take a look," the young man said, trying to get Hogan's eyes to focus on his face. "I need to know what's been done already. Can you tell me?"

"Thawed my feet… in London," Hogan managed through a mental fog that seemed to cloud his vision. "Had morphine… some time before we left England." He gestured vaguely toward the jacket Carter was holding. "More medicine in there." He closed his eyes, weariness overcoming him, as somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that he hadn't had a chance to fully sleep off the mission itself, the almost eight hours in the air that in the best of times used up all a man's strength and endurance.

Carter felt the jacket at Hogan's word, then dug into one of the deep inside pockets and pulled out a small parcel. "Son of a gun!" he exclaimed. "This must be it!"

He handled the bundle to Wilson, who opened it and then read the markings on the contents. "Good," the medic said. He turned back to Hogan. "Colonel, I'm going to give you a little more morphine, then I'm going to take your boots off, okay?"

Hogan barely nodded. Wilson prepared a syringe and filled it with the medicine as Hogan's men watched anxiously. Then he administered the shot and turned to the observers. "Okay, fellas, we need some time alone."

A round of protests was cut off by Newkirk. "Okay," he said over the others. He looked at Hogan lying uncomfortably on the bunk, then at Wilson. "We understand." With a nod toward Le Beau, Kinch and Carter, he led the way out into the common room, and Wilson closed the door behind them.

"Let's liven things up a bit, eh, mates?" Newkirk requested knowingly. "It's too quiet in here." And as Joe began his work in Hogan's room, the men decided as one to head to the tunnel and play cards. Some noises they just didn't want to hear.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Wilson's appearance on the ladder above them startled Hogan's men. "All clear, fellas," he said, nodding. He hopped off the bottom rung. "Colonel Hogan will sleep for a long time now. He's tired after a long day's flying."

Kinch looked up from his cards, his eyes dark with worry. "How is he, Joe?"

"Exhausted. It's tough to do a raid over Germany, fly all the way back to England, and then fly all the way back to Germany again in one night." Wilson shrugged as Hogan's men just looked back, unblinking. "He said his electric shoes conked out on the way out to the target. He's got frostbite to both feet. Sounds like they've got some new ways of treating it now. Can't say I think much of the method; we'll have to see what happens. He's comfortable enough at the moment. If he wakes up before morning—and I doubt he will—keep his feet elevated and give him some of the medicine he brought back if he needs it for the pain—I've hidden it under his top mattress."

"Thanks, Joe," Newkirk said.

"Yeah, yeah—just try not to need me so much, would you? You know, I'm thinking of going into a less hectic line of work, like being a one-armed paper hanger."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Roll call! Everyone, roll call!"

The lights were cruelly flicked on in Barracks Two early the next morning as the Sergeant of the Guard lumbered into the hut. A dozen men grumbled as they rolled out of their only slightly-warm beds. "We're coming, Schultz, we're coming," Le Beau muttered as he pulled his blanket closer around him and stumbled over toward the stove.

"Yeah, what's the hurry anyway? The war ending this morning, is it?" Newkirk quipped grouchily.

"That's not funny!" Schultz protested. He watched as the men assembled slowly, looking vainly for the senior POW. As Kinch passed him, the guard pulled him up and whispered significantly, "Sergeant Kinchloe, it is _Friday_."

Kinch raised an amused eyebrow. "Big weekend planned, Schultz?"

Schultz quivered in frustration. "Sergeant Kinchloe, you _know_ what I am talking about. Where is _Colonel Hogan_?"

"He's in his room, Schultz. Now if you'll just let me go check on him, I'll—"

Kinch tried to break away but the big man wouldn't have it yet. "Is he really in there?" he asked, dubious.

"Sure he's in there, Schultz," Carter declared. Kinch unlatched his arm from Schultz's fingers. "But he got back real late, so he's probably too tired to show up for roll call this morning."

"That's right, Schultz," Newkirk agreed. "It's against Geneva Prisoner of War Convention to ask a prisoner to get up for roll call when he's only had a couple of hours' kip."

"A couple of hours—" Schultz cut himself off. "I will be waiting outside." He turned to the door. "Just… promise me that I have to know _nothing_!"

"Don't worry, Schultz, we won't tell you anything we won't use against you," Le Beau assured him.

"Oh, _danke_, Cockroach, _danke_," Schultz replied, happy until he considered that he may have just been insulted. He disappeared.

As the door shut, Newkirk, Carter and Le Beau bolted to Hogan's room, where Kinch had already ventured inside. The foursome had already spent most of the night wandering in and out of the small room, not content with Wilson's insistence that the Colonel would be fine if he was just given time to rest and recover. Each time one of them went in, expecting to be checking on Hogan in secret, he found another man already in there doing the same. Each time, they found Hogan just as he was now: unmoved from how they had last seen him, breathing slowly and steadily, feet elevated, and looking totally exhausted. They wanted to see something more, but then they reminded themselves that Hogan had really only been back in camp for about three hours, and from what Wilson had told them, the healing would be slow, and painful. Still, they wanted to see Hogan awake, if only for their own peace of mind.

"How is he, Kinch?" Newkirk asked, as he and the others almost crept into the room.

Kinch shrugged. "I guess Joe was right—he must have been done in by the time he got here. He hasn't moved a muscle. We'll just have to tell Klink the truth."

"What?" Le Beau burst. Carter and Newkirk jumped in with him at the Sergeant's words.

Kinch shook his head. "I mean, we'll tell him Joe gave him some medication that just put him out and we can't wake him up," he said.

"Actually, you're doing a pretty good job of it," came a faint voice unexpectedly.

Kinch looked down at Hogan's bunk guiltily, as he saw their commanding officer struggling to blink sleep out of his eyes. "Sorry, Colonel. We shouldn't have been in here talking. Go back to sleep." He stood up from his spot next to the bed and nodded to the others to go.

"What's going on?" Hogan persisted breathily. "What time is it?"

"Time for roll call, gov'nor," Newkirk said. "But don't you worry none," he added hastily, as he saw Hogan make a clear attempt to pull himself up in the bed; "we've got you covered, sir."

"Yeah," Carter added. "You just go right back to sleep. We won't bother you again this morning, Colonel, honest."

Hogan shook his head. "It's okay. Klink will be expecting me. Better make an appearance."

"But Colonel—" started Kinch.

But Hogan was on the rise, his upper body stiff and sore from the now-rare exertion of wrestling with a twenty-ton B-17 for several hours. He carefully swung his legs off the side of the bed and took a breath to prepare himself. But the first step was his last. As he got to his feet, the agony became insufferable and, unable to suppress a howl of pain, he immediately started to collapse. Hands were waiting to catch him and help settle him back on the bunk. He lay panting, fighting to conquer the hurt, and raised a shaking hand to wipe away some of the sweat that had instantly beaded on his face. A few seconds later, he said in a soft voice, "Maybe… later this morning… Go—Klink will get suspicious. Just tell him I'm—I'm—"

Hogan stopped, squeezing his eyes tight and letting a small whimper escape as Le Beau finished propping up his feet the way Wilson had ordered. The Frenchman looked regretful. "Sorry, _Colonel_," he murmured.

"Go on—make an excuse for me. I'll see old Blood and Guts later. Then I'll fill you in on my little adventure."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Kinch walked into Hogan's office but pulled up short when he saw Wilson hovering by the bed.

"Oops," Kinch said. "Sorry, Joe. Have I interrupted something?"

Wilson turned at the voice and shook his head. "No, no, Kinch. Just looking after the patient here. I've checked his feet and changed the dressings—it's not pleasant but we'll have to do it for several days. It's worn him out; he's sleeping now."

"No, he's not," Hogan said, his voice almost slurred.

"Colonel," Kinch said, surprised.

"'m not sleeping," the officer insisted, though his face and his voice seemed to say otherwise. "What's going on?"

"Message from London, Colonel. They say the photos brought back by the reconnaissance plane this morning show you were right on target yesterday. The building and surrounding area were destroyed."

"That's good," Hogan answered. "Now if I can just get the Krauts to verify that was the research lab I saw the other day—_wow_!" he yowled, opening his eyes wide when Wilson without warning injected him with something. "Why didn't you _tell_ me you were doing that?"

Wilson shrugged and smiled almost, but not quite, apologetically. "Would you have liked it any better?"

Hogan's mouth twitched. "Forget it."

Kinch said to Hogan, "Burkhalter came by to see you late yesterday afternoon, Colonel—he was still looking for you to record that broadcast about what you saw when he took you there."

He snorted as he rubbed his arm where Wilson had injected him and followed the medic with his eyes, frowning. "Well, that either means he hadn't gotten word about the bombing yet—or I guessed wrong."

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Every step Hogan took sent electric fire racing straight through his body. _It could be worse_, he thought ironically, blinking hard and staring unflinchingly at the building that housed the Kommandant's office: _there could be no painkillers to take the edge off… or no feet at all._ He snorted ruefully. _I might have preferred that option last night._

Hogan stepped inside Klink's office and sat down without waiting to be asked, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath. _Ah, relief_.

"Hogan, what is wrong with your feet?" Klink asked, ignoring the lack of military courtesy and looking over his desk at his senior POW.

Hogan jerked his head up to meet Klink's curious gaze. "My feet, sir?"

"Those are not your shoes. And I watched as you crossed the compound—you seem to have trouble walking. What is it all about, Hogan?"

Hogan shrugged. "It's really a case of the chicken and the egg, sir," he said hastily. "Corporal Sullivan's shoes were worn out, and he was suffering from the cold, sir, so I gave him mine, since they fit him so well. Well, that left me with an old pair that was worn right through, and I was getting chilblains, so Sergeant Olsen gave me his shoes to ward off the cold. But he's got elephant feet and his shoes are just too big, sir, so I developed blisters, and oh, they're really painful, Kommandant, and it hurts just to stand, much less to walk," Hogan babbled, hoping Klink would just get lost in the words.

"You should soak your feet, then, Hogan," Klink advised.

"No!" Hogan practically yelped, last night's thawing session in England still far too fresh in his mind.

Klink jumped at Hogan's strong reaction. "What is it, Hogan?"

"Oh, I mean, there isn't enough warm water, sir," Hogan amended. "I just need to stay off my feet for awhile. They'll be fine if I can just keep them up and keep them warm."

Klink nodded, bamboozled. "Make sure you ask the Red Cross for some new shoes when you put in your next request list," he said. "I will not accept bad shoes as an excuse for loafing when you should be looking after your men. My guards have enough to do without doing your job, too."

"Yes, sir, I certainly will, sir," Hogan replied. He let out a mental sigh of relief. "So why did you want to see me, Kommandant?"

"General Burkhalter called this morning, Hogan. You will no longer be required to do that broadcast for Allied radio."

"Really?" Hogan replied. Then he gasped unexpectedly and gripped the arms of the chair tightly.

Klink paused as Hogan paled but did not remark on it. He merely waited until some color returned to the Colonel's cheeks and then said, "Yes, really. It appears that any broadcast about what you saw would be useless."

"Why's that, Kommandant?"

Klink paused. "Because, Hogan," he said, shooting a quick glance toward Hogan's feet as the American shifted weight uncomfortably, "because the place the General took you to—"

Klink paused. "Yes?" Hogan prompted, not daring to hope.

"The place he took you to, Colonel Hogan, was destroyed yesterday by your destructive American bombers." Klink shook his head, scoldingly.

_Yes!_ Hogan thought, a smirk of triumph lighting up his face. He didn't have to keep it a secret; he would have been happy about it whether he had been involved or not.

"_Hogan, what are you smiling about?_" Klink demanded, irritated.

Hogan laughed out loud. "You're kidding, right?" he asked.

Klink opened his mouth to retort, but could think of nothing adequate. Finally, he settled on an observation. "You know, Hogan, a lot of unusual things happen when you've been involved, somehow. I don't know if we should trust you."

Hogan shrugged. "If you can't trust your enemy, Kommandant, who _can_ you trust?" he asked innocently. "By the way, sir—will the General be coming back here to gloat about the Third Reich's superiority to me again soon?"

Klink scowled. "No," he snarled. "And I trust you won't be getting any more of this _Delayed Reaction Syndrome_ you've been suffering from lately now that the General is obviously not returning to camp today to make you keep your promise of broadcasting for the Luftwaffe," he added.

Hogan remembered what the men had told him about using the ploy of psychosomatic illness again when Burkhalter came to camp while the Colonel was away. He tried to imagine what Burkhalter's face would have looked like when he was told the atomic research laboratory was destroyed, and he smiled, satisfied. "No, Kommandant," he said. "I think instead you might find that the General is looking now to stay away from _me_."

Klink laughed ironically. "Why should _that _be unusual? I do it all the time."

Hogan put on a hurt look. "Oh, I'd hate to think that's _true_, sir. After all, I want to hang around long enough to pay you back for everything you've given_ me_, sir." _Like the means of getting a lot of our own boys out safely._ Hogan smiled slyly and leaned forward toward Klink at his desk. "Kinda makes you wish the Thousand Year Reich would end that much sooner, doesn't it?"


End file.
